


you are my salvation

by SlytherinsDragon



Series: Holmescest ABO Works [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha Mycroft Holmes, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Drug Use, Falling In Love, Fluff, Graduate School, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Misunderstandings, Not Canon Compliant, Omega Sherlock, holmescest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:34:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22964722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/pseuds/SlytherinsDragon
Summary: The breathing, the retching and the agnozied groans coming from a corner steady him; they tell him that he had not arrived too late.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Series: Holmescest ABO Works [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1745659
Comments: 53
Kudos: 192





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've spent my week working on this fic, as my muse demanded it. At the time of publishing this first chapter, I have 24k of this story written. Decided just to publish a bit of it today. Enjoy!

“We cannot keep meeting like this, little brother.”

Stumbling in the dark, Mycroft tries to feel his way around the room, looking for some sort of a switch for a light source. The breathing, the retching and the agnozied groans coming from a corner steady him; they tell him that he had not arrived too late, nor would he have to rush to inject the naloxone that he keeps on his person at all times. 

This isn't an overdose. Well… at least not this time. Giving up his search, he fumbles for a lighter in one of his suit pockets – using the flames to illuminate the squalid room. 

“Fuck! Turn it off –” The sound of dry-heaving interrupts his brother’s agitated words, before he adds somewhat accusingly, “If not like this… we wouldn’t meet at all, Mycroft.” 

Coherent. Mycroft would describe the tone as bitter. The room reeks of emesis, piss, noxious chemicals and god-knows-what-else. He can’t even smell the intrinsic scent of his brother, curled up on a disgusting mattress in the corner of the room, covered in his own bodily fluids. He finds the switch to an old dingy lamp and flicks it on, while letting the flames of the lighter die in relief – for who knows what sorts of inflammable gases could be present in the atmosphere of little brother’s flat. 

Satisfied that Sherlock isn’t going to keel over anytime soon, he searches the one-room flat and its adjoining loo thoroughly after donning a pair of disposable gloves. He taps the walls and furniture for hollow spaces, pries open a loose floorboard – recalling all the cunning little tricks that Sherlock had used to hide whatever he had needed to hide over the last year or so. He finds the chemicals – the baggies of white powder, the unlabeled bottles of pills and even the sealed sterile syringes filled with mysterious fluids. A potent mix of depressants and synthetic hormones. 

Dropping all the paraphernalia in front of his shivering brother, he asks quietly but sternly – squatting down to meet Sherlock at eye-level. For there are enough chemicals in here to kill elephants, let alone humans. 

“Do you have a death wish, Sherlock?” 

His brother – his curls plastered to his gaunt head by copious amounts of sweat – turns to look at him. Despite being in the throes of withdrawal – even though this is for sure a transient lucid state – there is something ethereal about Sherlock, reminding Mycroft that his brother is an Omega. 

The pupils are dilated; there is a shocking amount of anger in his brother’s eyes. “Why the fuck do you care?” The words are almost hissed out, but the effect is ruined by an uncontrollable spasm that momentarily takes control of his entire body. “You come here, you make sure I am not dead, you clean me up, lecture me – maybe throw me into a hospital, rehab… whatever… and then never fucking show up again. And you...” Sherlock grabs the drugs in his hands – looking almost manic. “Don’t even know why I do this.” Every word is spat out with a great deal of effort as his brother dashes everything against the wall. 

Mycroft catches his brother before he could collapse onto the ground – too weak to catch himself. “Fine. If you don’t think I know, brother dear – kindly enlighten me.” The quiet fury is his own voice is merely a mask – because Mycroft would be crying in devastation otherwise. 

“It stops the heat. I hate it. Abhor it. I can’t stand it anymore. Of course – I fucking have a death wish. You wouldn’t understand, Alpha.” Sherlock glares at him, before his body spasms uncontrollably again. 

“No. I wouldn’t.” Mycroft agrees readily. “But… Sherlock. You can’t keep doing this to yourself. There is a reason why all current heat suppression methods remain unapproved by governmental agencies worldwide. Once you start doing this –”

“Do you not think I know that? That I would have – at max – ten years? That I would be dead before I am thirty? I experimented – it took three times for me to perfect the ratio of hormones to depressants required to halt estrus. I am living in hell, Mycroft – yet I would prefer this than the alternative. Finding an Alpha for every heat? I can’t stand people, let alone bear to get knotted by them for a day or so. Although, I will admit that ending everything sounds better and better with each month that passes by.” 

Unbelievable. 

“You’ve never had an Alpha…” 

“I did. I had one take me to bed months ago. I found him utterly repulsive. I tried to kick him out – but he refused and knotted me anyways. For hours.” At that, the anger in his brother’s voice dissipates and Sherlock breaks down, actually sobbing. 

Slowly, with the caution of approaching a wounded animal, Mycroft rests his now ungloved hand in his brother’s sweat-matted hair. Stroking the curls, he could hear his brother sigh, slowly relaxing into his touch. He tempers down his own anger, for such a tale is all too common amongst young unbonded Omegas. 

For all his bravado, his brother is a sensitive creature when it comes to things that actually mattered. Sherlock ought to come with a placard:  _ handle with tender care. _

“I don’t want to die, Mycroft. I really don’t. I just don’t see how I can live like this. I should have been an Alpha.” 

“Shh… little brother.” Mycroft continues caressing. “We will figure something out.”

“Don’t leave me…” 

“No. Never.” His voice is firm. And then he says – in a much quieter voice as his brother drifts off asleep. “I would do anything for you – you know that, little brother…” 

*

“Feeling better now?” Mycroft asks almost an hour later – having long given up his uncomfortable squatting to dare soil his trousers on the filthy mattress. 

“Mpph.” Sherlock mumbles, opening his eyes – now a bright blue-green-grey. 

There are still occasional tremors that take control of his brother now and then, but the violent spasms had disappeared altogether. He blinks. “You said you would do anything – for me…” 

Of course, the deviant remembers that out of everything that they had said earlier. Mycroft simply nods, “Yes.” while mentally wondering what the hell he has he gotten himself into. 

“Then stop disappearing on me when I am clean.” Sherlock crawls forward a little and rests his head on one of Mycroft’s thighs. Tilting his head, he looks upward – and Mycroft could almost see his little grey cells thinking, deducing… and… god – why is his brother smiling at him like that…? 

No… he couldn’t possibly have…! 

“You had to, didn’t you – Mycroft…?” Sherlock pounces. 

Mycroft could feel his own heart beginning to race, the beads of perspiration forming on his skin. As there is nothing he could say without incriminating himself, he exercises his right to remain silent. 

“You had to stay away. Brother.” There is almost a playful-bordering-on-seductive mien in his brother’s demeanour. “You found me attractive. In fact – judging by your pulse, I’d say you still find me alluring.” 

“Oh. God. Sherlock. For the love of –”

“Don’t be boring.” Sherlock cuts him off. “If you want me to live a long… healthy life – My…”

Mycroft winces at the truncation of his given name. Weakly, he protests. “What happened to finding people repulsive…?”

“Mycroft – you aren’t people. I trust you.”

He sighs. Of course. Sherlock trusts him. Blackmailing him into doing something that Mycroft had wanted ever since he had first learned of Sherlock’s secondary gender. And he can see now that staying away – his own method of trying to save himself and his brother from his taboo desires – would only drive Sherlock closer to the brink of suicidality. 

“Fine. There are conditions you must follow for this to work, little brother.” 

“Fine. What are they?” Sherlock asks, willing to concede. “Don’t tell me that they are as banal as getting a checkup, going back to university, never touching another illicit drug…”

“You seem to have gotten the gist of things.” Mycroft smirks at Sherlock’s display of petulant annoyance at relinquishing his freedoms. “You will give up this sordid flat, get cleaned up, move in with me, go back to school and keep yourself clean. Is that beyond your capabilities, brother?”

“Fine.” Sherlock grumbles reluctantly after several long minutes had passed – evidently having hoped that Mycroft would take back some of his words. 

“Then, I am going to flush all of this down the toilet. And we will go. Is there anything else illegal in here that we ought to dispose of before leaving?” 

“You missed a spot.” His brother points to a bookcase, and gestures to a thick book –  _ War and Peace _ ; a book that his brother would never have read. 

Damn, he ought to have known.

Mycroft gets up with the contraband and grabs the aforementioned book, before heading to the loo to flush whatever he could down. He could hear Sherlock trying to get up from the mattress, and he says. “You don’t need to bring anything. We will start anew, little brother.” 

He ignores his brother’s dark mumblings of Mr. Wasteful-Moneybags and tyranny, before looking for a container to hold the incriminating bottles, needles and syringes that would need to be taken downstairs and disposed of before they leave. 

There is nothing in this flat worth salvaging aside from his brother. But – Mycroft is somewhat relieved, knowing that this could be the solution that he had been looking for in regard to his brother’s self-destructive impulses – which could all be traced back to when Sherlock had presented as an Omega approximately two years ago, bringing absolute chaos into Mycroft’s otherwise perfectly-ordered realm.

*

“Don’t send me away…” Sherlock mumbles. He drifts in and out of consciousness when they are in the Jaguar; his head resting in Mycroft’s lap as his brother’s fingers gently comb through his wet curls. “Won’t go.” He then utters, rather childishly.

“No one is sending you anywhere you don’t want to be.” Mycroft whispers soothingly. 

At most – he thinks, he will have to hire a nurse, and pay a consultant to drop by daily to monitor his brother’s detox. At least, for the first week. He has sent his brother to an inpatient rehab before, and the results… had not been good. His brother being the menace he was and still is. 

If Sherlock had been suppressing his heat for the past year – from what it seems like – Mycroft has no clear inkling about how this tinkering with biology would have an effect on his brother’s estral cycles. And no world-renowned expert would be able to tell him, as Mycroft is sure the answer to that would depend on 1) how long Sherlock had been trying to control his heat with drugs, 2) what combinations of drugs he used and 3) his own genetic and metabolic peculiarities. 

His digits continue to stroke the soft strands of his brother’s curls. Sherlock is shivering, despite being wrapped on the old ratty and foul-smelling blanket that he had refused to leave behind. 

“We there yet?” Sherlock mutters. “Need the loo…” 

“Soon, and please hold it…” Mycroft sighs deeply as the car finally turns into his neighbourhood. 

“Mm… there’s ants crawling on you…” 

Mycroft sighs deeply. Here they are – the hallucinations. “No, there isn’t.”

“Yes there is!” 

To make his point, Sherlock smacks Mycroft’s shoulder, causing him to wince.

“Little brother, kindly leave the wildlife alone…” 

“But, ants!” 

“Industrious creatures. A hivemind… like your bees…” 

“Honey!” And with that, Sherlock falls promptly asleep, just as the Jaguar reaches the front of his house. 

Of bloody course… 

Once again, Mycroft sighs as his ever-reliable driver – Charles – opens the door for him.

***

“Drink, little brother.” Mycroft offers a mug of water.

Sherlock shakes his head – seeming to look increasingly ill at the very thought. “Don’t wanna…” 

“You must. Or, I am going to tell Dr. George to stick an IV in you for hydration when he gets here in the morning.”

“My…”

“Please, brother. I don’t particularly desire having to make a trip to the A&E just because you cannot stay hydrated.” 

“Dun want to go there either… My…”

“Sherlock, please.” Mycroft sighs, looking at the pitiful – smelly – bundle that is his brother on his spare bed. “I will clean you up afterwards.”

“Playing nurse, brother?” His brother deigns to open one amused eye.

“No, playing uncooperative patient instead, evidently.” Mycroft retorts instantly, while putting the mug back down on the nightstand. “Here, let’s sit you up…”

“My!” Sherlock complains – squirming – when Mycroft attempts to rearrange his weakened body. “Please stop…” He whimpers. “It hurts all over.” 

Mycroft lets his brother go immediately and sits on the bed. His brother slowly drags himself over to him, discomfort obviously written all over his body. It really does take him back; back to those days when Sherlock had been a cute toddler who had caught a nasty strain of the flu – who had only wanted Mycroft to look after him. 

“I… didn’t mean to be uncooperative… I just feel like… shit.” Sherlock says, his eyes downcast, looking uncannily like a lost puppy that had been wandering about in a nasty thunderstorm. “My… don’t give up on me. I will be good. I promise.” He whispers, as Mycroft takes the promise with a grain of salt. 

A Sherlock in withdrawal can be contrite one moment, throwing a temper tantrum the next, terribly emotional hours later and in between, he would be an approximation of his usual self, if not unconscious. And, he becomes a nightmare if surrounded by people he does not know, which is why Mycroft has given up any notion to send his brother to an inpatient detox program. 

“Won’t give up on you.” He says, as he carefully rests his hand on his brother’s back, gently stroking the sweat-soaked cotton of the shirt. “Here, let’s go clean you up, and then get you something to drink.”

“Something warm? So cold…” Sherlock visibly shivers, but he allows Mycroft to help him out of the bed and guide him gently to the adjoining loo. 

“Soup, just the liquid – surely can you handle that?” 

His brother nods. “I’ll try. My…” 

*

A contented purr escapes from his brother when Mycroft rubs that fancy shampoo that Sherlock insists on using into his terribly matted locks. He carefully uses his fingers to gently comb the tangles out, knowing that his brother would feel better if his hair – his pride and joy – is in order. 

Secretly, Mycroft enjoys this too, feeling the stresses of the day melt away. Of having to deal with the Prime Minister’s seemingly endless list of unrealistic demands, before Sherlock had sent him a very concerning text:

_ I am dying. SH _

_ What did you take? MH _

His brother hadn’t replied back. Mycroft had dropped everything minutes later and rushed over – fearing the worst – after confirming Sherlock’s location via GPS-tracking. 

“Rinse.” Mycroft directs, gently guiding his brother’s head under the faucet, ensuring that all the shampoo washes out, before moving onto the conditioner. Gently, he coats his brother’s locks with the fragrant fluid, without getting it onto the scalp.

While they are waiting for the conditioner to do its job, Sherlock murmurs. “You don’t have to do all this for me, Mycroft. It isn’t your fault that I did this to myself.” 

“Sherlock, it’s not a matter of ‘I have to’, it is a matter of ‘I want to’.” Mycroft says, firmly. 

“But why?” His brother slowly turns his head, his eye looking inquisitively at Mycroft. 

“I care about you.” 

“I’ve been such a disappointment.” Sherlock’s voice is almost a whisper. “I dropped out of university during my last year. I can’t even take an Alpha for my heats. I am a fuck-up, My…” 

“Nothing we can’t fix, little brother. And I think everything comes from the second problem, doesn’t it?”

“Brother… what if I said I did the drugs initially because I was bored? My Beta roommate – Sebastian – had some cocaine, and we did it together the first time.” There is a little bit of trepidation in his brother’s voice; as if he fears Mycroft’s disapproval. “It felt so good, My – I thought I could do anything.”

“You still can do anything, little brother. But – the aftermath…”

“Oh, we crashed together. It was awful. I just wanted to sleep all the time, and I felt like I was going to die. I couldn’t even get out of bed, and I missed a midterm. And then he scored some more, and you know how it goes… and then I learned that you could suppress heat with some hormones and downers so I started messing around with that. Mycroft… I may have permanently damaged some things down there with my experimentation…” 

“I know. I will call an OB/GYN to come check you over. Will try and find someone with some experience in these matters. But, brother… you do know that this will only work if you want to get better, right?” 

“I told you. I want to be good.” Sherlock reiterates. “I want to live, My... Be someone you could be proud of...“ 

“Rinse again, Sherlock.” Mycroft nudges his brother’s head back under the running water. 

His brother obediently goes under the water, and Mycroft washes the rest of the expensive formula out of his brother’s curls. 

This is an interesting version of Sherlock – Mycroft muses – one that seems earnestly honest. Or… at least the portion of him that seems to crave approval from Mycroft and dwells on the consequences of his actions. A part that Mycroft had seldom seen since Sherlock had hit puberty. As much as he would like to hate Sherlock’s roommate who had started him on this downward trajectory – he knows that recreational substances are a common theme amongst the university set, and if it hadn’t been Mr. Wilkes that had done so, his curious brother would have gotten his hands on the drugs in another way through other means, especially if he couldn’t tolerate his own heats.

Hopefully his brother will remember some of the things they had just talked about when he is himself again. Mycroft grabs a fluffy towel to dry his brother’s hair, before placing a basin in the tub – to obtain enough perfectly heated water to give Sherlock a sponge bath. After he sits his brother down on the toilet seat, he quickly – but carefully washes him thoroughly with a damp sponge, ignoring the plops of diarrhea that his brother releases into the toilet – another nasty side-effect of the opioids his brother had taken. Withdrawal is hell. His brother simply keeps his eyes closed during the entire time. Sherlock wipes his own bottom when he is done – making a face of disgust as he does so, and allows Mycroft to wash his arse afterwards. Mycroft attires him in a new set of cotton pyjamas, grabs a brush to put his hair into some semblance of orderliness and takes him back into the bedroom. 

“Thank you.” Sherlock simply says before engulfing Mycroft in a spontaneous hug. 

“Anytime. And, Sherlock – just be honest with me. If you can’t deal with something, come find me, please. Be it drugs, the heat, annoying people –”

“Goldfish.” Sherlock adds with a giggle – recalling an old conversation that they had when they were much younger about everyday ordinary people. 

“Yes, goldfish. And I will go make you some soup, okay? Chicken noodle – you know the one Cook used to make when we were children?”

“Okay, My… I will have that.” Sherlock brightens.

“Alright. Try and sleep now. I will come back.”

“Mm… you better.” Sherlock mutters under his breath before dropping onto the bed, and Mycroft walks out to make soup.

***

“You terrible boy, throwing a tantrum like that.” Mycroft shakes his head at his brother when he returns from work late in the evening a few days later. “Elaine sent me two texts threatening to quit.” 

“She was being annoying.” Sherlock grumbles, his arms crossed. “I didn’t want to eat! And I am  _ not  _ a boy.”

“Au contraire, mon petit frère, you’ve been behaving like one. Grabbing onto my leg in the morning, trying to get me to stay like a little child not wanting his Mummy to leave. Throwing things like an out-of-control toddler at the nurse. And I heard you haven't eaten a single thing since breakfast. I think the evidence speaks for itself, doesn’t it?” 

His brother huffs, before he asks, sounding rather like a child. “But you bought some treats, didn’t you? You promised before you left!” 

“Under duress.” Mycroft protests, as Sherlock wouldn’t have allowed him to leave otherwise. And he had already been running late, after having finally coaxed his brother to eat his eggs and toast – simple foods for his digestive system. Although, somehow, he had found that entire scene endearing. It is nice to be wanted. “And I really shouldn’t be positively reinforcing your awful behaviour with treats.”

“My…” Sherlock then adds. “It’s boring when you are gone. I just stay in bed all day like an invalid, and walk a little. I want something to do…” 

From the nightstand – which has a stack of things that Mycroft had just brought upstairs for his brother, he takes a thick University College London (UCL) catalogue and drops it on the bed with a thud, near his brother’s hand. “You can pick what courses you would need to do to finish your last year of your degree, little brother. The new semester starts in two months, and registration is soon.” 

“Do I have to?” Sherlock laments. “It’s also boring…”

Mycroft sighs. “Sherlock. You told me you had felt like a disappointment for not finishing your degree. It’s just one more year, little brother. And I insist you finish it.”

“Fine.” His brother mumbles, taking the catalogue. “And I want soup again. And whatever you brought back today.” He then looks at Mycroft with those brilliant  _ innocent _ eyes. “Please?” 

“You are such a manipulative brat.” Mycroft sighs, turning to leave for the kitchen to fulfill his brother’s demands.

*

“Here you are – soup.” Mycroft had brought up a tray of two bowls of chicken noodle soup; today’s soup has more vegetables, noodles and chunks of chicken than the previous day’s. He sets the tray on the nightstand and hands his brother a spoon. 

“Where’s the treats?” Sherlock pouts. “Let me guess, no dessert before dinner.”

“My little genius.” Mycroft smirks at him, before picking up his own bowl. “I see you know the rules.”

“Don’t be condescending, Mycroft. I  _ am  _ ill.” Sherlock gives an injured look that Mycroft is not buying whatsoever. 

Mycroft ignores his brother and proceeds to eat – sipping at the soup before taking a bite of the noodles. Like his brother, he hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast either, having been at the beck and call of an anxious Prime Minister – as there is a big international trade summit regarding a trade deal that the man could not afford to screw up tomorrow.

Sherlock glares at Mycroft for a minute or so, unhappy that he isn’t getting his brother’s attention. Finally, he sighs theatrically – sitting up at the edge of the bed and picks up his own bowl – and eats – slurping at the noodles with relish and gulping the soup down in an obnoxious manner. 

Manners, Mycroft couldn’t even be bothered to care about – as long as his brother eats. The thing about Sherlock is that he knows etiquette and manners, he just doesn’t bother with them. Reprimanding him is useless. He sees that Sherlock is back at the ‘testing the limits of Mycroft’s patience’ phase again. But this is rather minor, compared to the old stunts he used to pull. 

“I am done.” Sherlock places the bowl back down on the tray with a loud clatter. “Can we have dessert now?” 

“Can we skip the phase where you are a bratty, authority challenging adolescent?” Mycroft goes over to put his own bowl on the tray. 

“Some would say I never grew out of it.” Sherlock gives a small smile, dropping the bratty behaviour. “And Mycroft… you do know that I am twenty? I was only an adolescent half a year ago.” 

“I am aware, little brother.” Mycroft reaches over to mess around with his brother’s curls – as he had done routinely when Sherlock had been a child. Sherlock doesn’t protest, letting Mycroft rub his scalp and he relaxes into his touch. Mycroft asks, moments later. “Shall I go get dessert?” 

He attempts to move his hand, but his brother immediately grabs it – evidently changing his mind about dessert. “No. Stay. Mycroft. Please. Read something to me?” 

Surprised at the sudden request, Mycroft sits down on the bed, and Sherlock rests his head on Mycroft’s thigh, after grabbing a random book from the pile of stuff that Mycroft had brought. He takes the offered book, a book on bees that he had thought his brother would enjoy reading.  _ The Bees of the World. _ Clearing his throat, he reads after flipping past the preface.

“Since ancient times, people have been drawn to the study of bees. Bees are spritely creatures that move about on pleasant bright days and visit pretty flowers. Anyone studying their behaviour should find them attractive…”

***

“I can see that you are better.” Mycroft remarks as he leans casually against the doorframe – still clad in the suit that he had worn to work.

His brother freezes – as if he had been caught doing something naughty – mid-turn. Judging by the position of his hands, and feet – and the tapping that Mycroft had heard earlier, it is flamenco. Ah, little brother is revisiting his younger roots… when he had loved to dance. And, he had bothered to get dressed for the first time since arriving at Mycroft’s. A new black shirt, trousers and a pair of oxfords. Tentatively, Sherlock relaxes – placing his arms to the side, and turns around. 

“I didn’t even hear you, big brother.” He says in response. “And – I was bored…”

“No need to get defensive, Sherlock.”

“Mm… not.” Sherlock mutters, as Mycroft strides the five steps to be next to his brother. “And you are early.” 

“I left early from Whitehall to go hand in your forms to the registrar’s office. And I brought Chinese back. I thought you’d like that. Got some of your favourites – crispy taro puffs, fried rice and roasted chicken.” Mycroft explains, watching the faintest hint of a smile quirk on his brother’s lips. “And I spoke with all your doctors…”

“Am I completely healthy? No. Wait – don’t tell me. Tell me later.” Sherlock waves a disinterested hand – which only betrays the anxiety within him. “And I could have done that. Gone in to hand over my own bloody paperwork to the school.” 

“And paid your tuition for the year.” 

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh.” 

Mycroft cannot help but notice that his brother looks good. Not just good, fantastic. His bespoke clothes – newly made – fit a little loosely around his frame. But that is intentional, as Mycroft knows that Sherlock will eventually regain the weight he had lost over the year of drug use. He will take his brother to the tailors to get more made when he starts classes. They could pick out styles, colours and fabrics together. There is a healthy sheen to Sherlock’s eyes – which he hasn’t seen in awhile. Despite his complaints of being cooped up in the house, his brother does seem content with his current situation. Mycroft had never said that Sherlock couldn’t go out by himself – and he knows that if his brother truly wanted to, he would have by now. 

“Dance?” Sherlock asks.

It takes him by surprise. The request. Mycroft hasn’t danced with his brother for years. In fact – he had rejected it the last time Sherlock had asked. It had been at Sherlock’s ‘Coming Out’ party that Mummy had thrown after his brother had presented as an Omega. These sorts of events made up a big part of the social scene for young unbonded Alphas and Omegas to look for suitable mates. And of course, these sorts of festivities were chaperoned heavily by watchful parents – eager to make a strategic match. 

Mycroft had refused because if Sherlock had ever danced with him, he would have eventually found out Mycroft’s secret. Of his inappropriate lust for little brother. But now, Sherlock had deduced it, isn’t appalled by it and had ‘blackmailed’ Mycroft into ‘servicing’ his heats. 

God. ‘Servicing’. Mycroft cringes at the terminology. It sounds so crude. 

“Stop thinking, Mycroft.” Sherlock grabs Mycroft’s hands and practically puts them around his torso.

His legs automatically move as he leads Sherlock into the steps of a waltz. His brother hums the beat, and they dance. A younger Sherlock – when he had been learning – had always been annoyed at being the follower when practicing with Mycroft. Of course, his brother also learned how to lead. This had been long before Sherlock’s secondary gender had been revealed; it is traditional in virtually all cultures for the Alpha to lead. 

He twirls his brother around and around the room, before using his brain to anticipate Sherlock’s next moves in order to best complement them with his own. His brother is an improviser – making things challenging, but Mycroft doesn’t mind. It’s lovely to be a facilitator of his brother’s genius – and the grins they share and the exhilaration in his brother’s eyes when they finish a complicated sequence makes Mycroft forget about everything else that had happened earlier in the day.

What he does mind is the enticing scent wafting from his brother’s neck glands. With every day that passes, his brother’s scent gets stronger – having been suppressed by drugs. Mycroft finds it extraordinarily difficult not to bury his face against Sherlock’s beautiful neck. To scent him. The simplest of courtship gestures. 

The science behind scents is all nonsense to Mycroft anyways. The dominant theory says that Omegas that are genetically the most compatible to an Alpha smell the most tantalizing. However, the most delicious Omega scent that Mycroft had ever managed to get a whiff of is that of his own brother. 

Other Omegas just smell wrong to him, which is why he had preferred having sexual relations with Betas in the past. Mummy had long given up on setting Mycroft up with any sort of Omega, and one of their nasty aunts had called Mycroft a deviant once – because of his apparent lack of interest in Omegas. 

Sherlock had run away from home the moment Mummy had tried to set up an Alpha for him behind his back and since then, his brother had refused to see or talk to Mummy and Father. 

“You are thinking again.” Sherlock sighs loudly – but there is an undercurrent of fondness somewhere in that sigh. “And, just so you know, your hands are on my arse.”

“Apologies, brother dear.” 

Mycroft realizes that his hands are indeed resting on his brother’s plush buttocks. With an effort (to resist squeezing) he moves his hands upwards to settle them on his brother’s slender waist. He takes control of the dance once more, leading Sherlock through one more intricate passage – making use of the entire open space of the bedroom, before ending the dance with a ridiculous dip at the centre – causing his brother to lose his balance and tumble onto the floor bum first. 

Their eyes meet again; Sherlock’s twinkle with mirth. They both dissolve into gales of helpless laughter which they hadn’t shared since they were children.

***

“You should stop smoking those.” Sherlock says as he steps out onto the porch after dinner. “Or at least, be useful and give me a drag.”

Mycroft stubs out the cigarette in an ashtray before Sherlock could snatch it from his fingers. His brother does have a point. They should just give up their chemical vices together. His brother moves closer, intent on inhaling the remainder of the second-hand smoke, while Mycroft notices that the Beta spray that his brother had been wearing in order to go to school unmolested by his unbonded Alpha colleagues had worn off since Sherlock had gotten home. 

It is a warm September evening; the skies are streaked with the rays of the fading sun. 

“I think I will quit then.” Mycroft replies casually, taking a step away from his brother. “It’s only fair.”

“You can – if you want.” Sherlock offers.

“Can… what?” Mycroft is bewildered at the sudden turn in conversation.

“Scent me. I see your eyes, Mycroft. They constantly go here.” His brother points to his scent gland located at the junction of his neck and shoulder. 

Mycroft should say no. He knows that if he buries his nose against that beautiful neck and inhales, he will never be able to resist again. His mind reminds him that it is inevitable. He will have to scent his brother when he goes into heat. 

It is trading one addiction for another. 

Sherlock takes a step towards him.

Little brother is too close; the scent is intoxicating, ensnaring his senses – weakening his already crumbling resolve. He is, at the end of the day, a mere Alpha. With needs, wants and desires. Slowly, he leans forward. With delicacy, he brushes his nose cautiously against the sensitive skin over the gland, and Sherlock sighs. His arms wrap around his brother, and he inhales. 

It smells right. 

Of rain, of conditioner, of tea and something enticingly fragrant. The natural intrinsic scent of Sherlock. His brother goes limp in his arms, as the act of scenting pushes small amounts of endogenous and pleasurable chemicals into his brother’s circulation. 

***

“You are hiding something.” Mycroft observes at the dinner table, as he helps himself to soup-filled xiǎo lóng bāo with a pair of chopsticks. 

Carefully he takes the bāo in a spoon after dipping it in black vinegar and nibbles the top, sucking out the soup, before eating the rest of it in one mouthful. 

His brother fidgets. There is a look of guilt on his face. 

It’s harder now. Mycroft thinks. To lie. To hide things from one another. Now that they regularly scent each other, they are more connected. More in tune with each other’s thoughts, moods and emotions. Sharing heats would only intensify the connection.

“Out with it, little brother.” Mycroft puts his chopsticks down and looks patiently at his brother. 

Sherlock attempts a start. “I… uh. Mycroft…” He looks helpless. “I skipped all my classes today.” 

“Somehow, I don’t think that’s everything.” 

“Don’t be mad. Please.” 

“I will try not to be. Tell me.” 

“I… bought something. Mycroft. I couldn’t…” 

“Did you take any?” Mycroft asks, immediately deducing what his brother had bought. 

He tempers his own fear, knowing that it wouldn’t help in this situation. To be honest, he had expected this sort of situation to arise sooner, especially with the amount of independence that he does permit his brother to have.

“No. I couldn’t. I had a bit in the syringe, but I kept thinking of you. And how mad you would be. And disappointed. I emptied the syringe in a bin, and tossed it. I swear. You can look at my arms; you can even drug test me. I swear I am clean, Mycroft.” His brother’s words grow frantic. 

“Do you still have any of the powder?” 

Sherlock nods. 

“Go bring it to me.” Mycroft says in the calmest voice he can manage, and his brother bolts from his chair to do what he is told. 

*

“The only thing I am disappointed about, Sherlock… is that you didn’t call me when you felt the urge to use. Or text.” Mycroft says when they both walk into the loo. 

His brother still holds the small bag of heroin. Mycroft waits without saying another word before his brother finally opens the bag, and dumps the contents down into the toilet bowl. Sherlock flushes the toilet. 

“No lectures, Mycroft? No scoldings?” 

“What’s even the point, little brother? You know what you have to do.” Mycroft shrugs. “Come.” 

He leads Sherlock to the living room. Sitting down on the sofa, he tugs at his brother’s sleeve, pulling him down. His brother looks surprised when Mycroft nuzzles his face against his neck gland, taking comfort in the scent. Sherlock eventually relaxes, after finally realizing that there would be no other repercussions to fear from him. 

“Dr. George did say that the probability of relapse is more likely than not. I do not expect you to be perfect, Sherlock.” Mycroft says after several minutes. “Promise me that you will call next time?”

Sherlock nods. 

“It’s not a character defect. It’s an illness. You are always going to have a background level of craving that can flare up again for whatever reason. Even more so since you insisted on quitting cold-turkey.” 

“I know.” Sherlock says. “I’ve read the literature. I’ve seen the statistics. But, My… I am worried.”

“Worried about what?” 

“My heat… I’ve been clean for almost five months now, and it’s still not here. You know heats are supposed to come every two-to-three months… At first I was happy, but…”

“You are worried that the damage you did was permanent? Dr. Kim didn’t seem to think that what you did to your body was irrevocable. He just advised for you to forgo the suppression experiments completely to prevent the damage already done from being irreversible.”

“I know what he said.” Sherlock mumbles. 

“It will be okay, little brother. I promise.” Mycroft pats his brother’s leg reassuringly. “You will soon be complaining about having a heat again soon.”

***

“Mycroft!”

“What is wrong, little brother?” 

“Come home, please.”

“Why?”

“It’s starting. My heat. Don’t be mad, I didn’t leave the house at all for class today because things didn’t feel right.”

“Why would I be mad about that? It seems like a reasonable decision.” 

“Please come.”

“I will be there in an hour. If you are still functional, bring some water and some snacks into my bedroom from the kitchen.”

“I will try my best. Pleasepleaseplease hurry!”

“All I can ask for. And I will be home as fast as I possibly can.” Mycroft hangs up and makes a call for the ever-reliable Anthea to block off the next two or three days in his schedule. 

For who knows how long this first heat is going to last. 


	2. Chapter 2

When Mycroft walks through the front door, it is the scent that hits him first. It had been years since he had been in the presence of an Omega in the throes of estrus. Running up the stairs, he is already shedding his three-piece suit, uncharacteristically not caring about where the garments and accessories fall, making a beeline for his own bedroom. He had forgotten how intense this all could be.

“My… please…” 

His brother is already naked in Mycroft’s king-sized bed – rutting desperately against the mattress with a fine sheen of sweat coating his body. 

“Need… you.” 

Sherlock turns over as Mycroft leaps onto the bed and throws off his shirt – revealing his abundantly dark-furred chest. His brother’s pupils are already fully blown; Sherlock is all deliciously smooth alabaster skin – track marks, accidental scrapes and chemical burns aside. With need, Sherlock tackles him, knocking them both down onto the bed. His brother scents him first, rubbing his nose against Mycroft’s scent gland, calming them both down before Mycroft flips him onto his back – causing an undignified squeal to escape from Sherlock. He chuckles, carefully leaning down to nuzzle at the Omega’s scent gland, before licking and sucking over the sensitive skin – forcing the hormones to flood into his brother’s circulation – preparing him for the moment of penetration. 

In the fog of his own need, Mycroft vaguely recalls that his brother had never enjoyed his own heats with other Alphas, so he slows things down a tad – taking the care to kiss and lick his way down – trying to do a preliminary search for all of Sherlock’s erogenous zones. This information would be useful later on, when the desperation during the early stages of heat abates. He stops to lick and tease at his brother’s pink nubs – causing Sherlock to emit little mewls of pleasure, before following the wisp of a treasure-trail down to his brother’s Omega cock.

“Mycroft please…” Sherlock begs unabashedly, “Stop teasing.” He gasps as Mycroft rearranges him onto his hands and knees, and moans loudly when a tongue is inserted into the opening of his cloaca, licking at the delicious nectar that is estrus-produced slick. 

It tastes better than anything that Mycroft has ever had. It is ambrosia; nourishment of the Gods. He can now understand why some Alphas were willing to fork over thousands of dollars for the fresh slick of certain Omegas. He licks and licks – and is forced to pull back somewhat when his brother pushes his arse closer to Mycroft’s face – evidently needing more. 

“Ride me, little brother.” Mycroft gently guides Sherlock to straddle his thighs – giving his brother control (for he feels what lies at the bottom of Sherlock’s unhappiness in regard to his heats is the loss of control), and the rest of Sherlock’s Omega instincts take over.

They both gasp when the welcoming hot heat of Sherlock’s cloaca engulfs the glans of Mycroft’s sizable Alpha prick. There is a look of trepidation in his brother’s eyes during a moment where his senses aren’t completely dulled by heat:  _ how is this going to fit? _

“It will fit – little brother. Trust me.” Mycroft puts a bit of pressure on Sherlock’s thighs – encouraging him to take his cock further in. “It will feel good soon, I promise.” 

The mix of agonized bliss on his brother’s face is a wonder to behold: how his eyes are squeezed shut, the furrowed brows – rather similar to how he looks when he is faced with a vexing problem – but instead now he is hyper focused on how everything feels, and the ‘o’ that forms on his mouth when he finally bottoms, taking Mycroft completely in. Carefully he undulates, experimenting with the speed – and all Mycroft could do is watch – mesmerized – as his brother’s muscles flex and relax, finding his rhythm: his pleasure. But soon, his own need makes itself known and Mycroft starts thrusting, drawing primitive animalistic noises from his brother. When his knot finally takes – rubbing his brother directly at his sweet spot – Sherlock emits a yowl – and he spills – causing his cloaca to contract deliciously against Mycroft’s prick – milking copious amounts of cum. Sherlock collapses against him – almost in a blissed-out comatose state – and Mycroft cannot help but to throw his arm around his brother’s torso. 

This is an arrangement. Mycroft knows. But, sentiment during heat is permitted and he buries the fingers of his other hand in the back of his brother’s hair – and he kisses his brother gently on the cheek. Sherlock hums contentedly – evidently this experience being exponentially better than whichever idiotic Alphas Sherlock had allowed to share his heat with in the past. 

*

“Again, little brother?” Mycroft sighs wearily when Sherlock crawls over to him again. 

“Think, last one.” Sherlock informs him, before scenting him. “Unless you want me to grab a toy?” 

With a growl, Mycroft reaches for his brother and flips him on his back – the Alpha within him displeased at the idea of not satisfying his brother’s heat completely. “Impertinent.”

“That’s me.” Sherlock smiles up at him – tiredly. 

They are both exhausted. A almost seventy-two hour long marathon of sex with only a thirty-minute to two hour break in between bouts is not a joke. Another reason why Mycroft had preferred relations with Betas to get his sexual frustrations out of the way. But – he had enjoyed this, fucking his brother into oblivion. It wouldn’t be a chore at all to do this four-to-six times a year. 

His brother adds. “Wasn’t trying to wound your Alpha pride, brother. You are tired. And, it’s not so bad now towards the end. Just… uh.”

“Trying to be considerate? Who are you, and what did you do to my brother?” Mycroft gazes down at his brother, his knees straddling his thighs and legs. 

“Ha. Funny.” 

“I can be quite droll, Sherlock. Now how do you want to end this?” He inquires, his nose informing him that this is indeed the end. 

“Take me. Like a dog.” 

Mycroft allows Sherlock to get onto his front before his hands reach for his brother’s shoulders. Gently he runs his palms and fingers against the silky skin, somewhat satisfied that his brother’s ribs aren’t as prominent as they had used to be. He enjoys looking at his brother, admiring the perfect proportions, the sleek lines of his body and even his muscles. Sherlock runs and swims these days – Mycroft knows, the former around the neighbourhood and the latter at a Omega-only fitness centre nearby. His hand grasps Sherlock’s Omega cock, and gently strokes, his fingertips gathering the drops of precum. His brother sighs with pleasure, before he moans when Mycroft pushes his thick prick into his orifice, taking him unceremoniously. 

“More.” Sherlock thrusts back, and Mycroft lets himself go, using whatever reserves he has left to fuck his brother into the mattress. 

All he can hear is obscene sounds of lubricated flesh against flesh, the creak of his bed and quiet panting of Sherlock as he nears completion. He feels his knot starting to grow again, and he fucks his brother harder, feeling the agonizing burn of the lactic acid buildup in his muscles. Sherlock howls his pleasure when the knot finally takes, cumming immediately, and Mycroft pumps him full with his hot seed. 

In his exhaustion, he falls back, groaning – bringing his knotted brother with him. The unintentional pull on his prick causes a frisson to tingle up his spine, as his back lightly meets the wooden headboard of the bed. He wraps his arms around his brother – now sitting in his lap in this new position. 

“Good?” He asks.

“Mm… Yes. This is acceptable.” Sherlock’s eyes have a glint of mischief to them, before he promptly falls asleep in Mycroft’s arms.

Ha. Acceptable. Mycroft grumbles darkly to himself before drifting off; his prick still anchored in his brother’s hole. 

*

They sleep throughout the entire day and night – waking up only to eat and drink from the pile of snacks that Sherlock had brought up before succumbing to his heat and to use the loo. Perhaps he will need to start working out more as well – Mycroft reflects. He had forgotten how utterly draining fucking an Omega through their heat could be. 

Before Sherlock leaves for an early class (Quantum Mechanics) that begins promptly at eight, he gives his brother a quick hug. It better conveys Sherlock’s gratefulness for something that hadn’t been hard at all for Mycroft to give.

***

“Mycroft, you are going to have to scent me regularly. My cover as a Beta was blown today.” His brother comes to him in the evening – a few days after their shared heat – when Mycroft is pursuing reports on his desktop in his study.

“You forgot the spray, little brother?” Mycroft sighs, turning away from his computer screen to face Sherlock.

His brother nods, somewhat apologetically. “I was running late… and it was my turn to present for my seminar class. No one made a pass at me, or anything – I still smell of you. Although my thesis advisor made a rather snide comment about the ineptitude of people of whom I share the same secondary gender with.”

Mycroft finds himself involuntarily clenching his fist. There are still idiots out there who thought themselves superior to Omegas like his brother. Carefully, he relaxes it, and he replies. “If anyone gives you trouble, little brother – tell me.”

Sherlock nods, as his fingers reach up to undo the top buttons of his maroon shirt – exposing his unmarked scent gland. “I don’t want you to fight all my battles for me, big brother. I can deal with Professor Emerson for the rest of the year. I am not the only Omega in his lab. Besides…” He shrugs. “He’s one of those old fogeys with tenure, Mycroft.” 

“Don’t underestimate me, little brother.” Mycroft allows himself to grin.

His eyes are still fixated on his brother’s neck; he wonders for the first time how his brother would look with his bite on his pale flesh. A shudder travels throughout his body at this possessive thought. Because that Sherlock forgot his scent spray, he would have to scent his brother almost daily now – to protect him from the paws of unsavoury unbonded Alphas. Especially in a university setting – typically dominated by Betas and Alphas. Very few Omegas end up obtaining secondary education. Most Omegas of Sherlock’s age stay at home, bearing kits, look after said kits and run the household. Alas, for Sherlock to do so (if he could stand such a mundane existence) would be a waste of his gifts. Mycroft had always thought and he would give his brother every chance to find himself in this world fraught with obstacles. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Sherlock smirks, subtly arching his neck just a little – to show off (as if it needed to be advertised) the length and elegance of his neck. 

Mycroft stands up and gently lowers his head, allowing his nose to touch lightly against his brother’s neck. He inhales, savouring his brother’s scent. It is calming, taking away temporarily all of the stress Mycroft has had to carry within him. Before he loses himself completely, he pulls away, and lets Sherlock do the same for him. He sighs when his brother’s elegant nose touches his own gland – enjoying the relaxing and almost euphoric effects of the tiny but potent amount of hormones released into his bloodstream. 

This scenting is also beneficial for him, for wearing an Omega’s scent keeps unwanted attention away from him. That damnable Lady Smallwood (an Omega that smelled like elderberries who had married a Beta) had been quite a nuisance over the last year – along with a few of the minor Royals in thinking that Mycroft’s status as an unbonded Alpha makes him fair game for their flirtatious ploys. After Sherlock’s heat, he had caught Lady Smallwood wrinkling her nose at him, and storming off in disgust. He had smiled and almost did a little jig in his Whitehall office after he had calmly shut the door behind him. 

And then Sherlock pulls away, and reveals. 

“I am going to do a PhD after I graduate, Mycroft.” 

“Are you really? Hopefully not with the same professor?”

“Oh, no – I am not stupid.” Sherlock shakes his head. “I found the lab in UCL with the only competent professor in the biochemistry department, and I met with him today – and we discussed some potential topics for my research. He has no problems with my gender – and in fact seems rather supportive of whatever I wanted to do.” 

“I approve, brother.” Mycroft nods. He had thought that Sherlock hadn’t wanted to further his education, considering how much of a fuss he had put up about going to university again, but clearly things change with time. “I suppose I shouldn’t tell Mummy?”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“Still haven’t forgiven her? For trying to pawn you off?” 

“No-pe.” He says – popping the last syllable. 

“Alright then. I have five more reports to read, and I will come down for dinner. Did you bring home the takeaway?”

“Yes, Mycroft. I brought back the Thai you wanted. And I bought myself the unagi-don from the Japanese next door. We could share.” 

“Fantastic idea. I will come downstairs in a bit. You can set the table.”

Sherlock stands a little awkwardly – as if he wants to say something, but he decides against it and heads off in the direction of the kitchen to do as he is told. 

***

“What’s wrong, Sherlock?” Mycroft asks with concern.

Sherlock is curled up in a ball on the loveseat in one of the spare bedrooms upstairs – the windows above overlooking the expansive backyard. It is one of Sherlock’s spots to hide – knowing that Mycroft does not come here often. It is almost Christmas; there are flurries lightly falling from the overcast sky outside – and his brother had written his last exam for the semester barely a few hours ago. Mycroft had wanted to find Sherlock and see if he wanted to celebrate – but clearly this is not the case. 

“Make it stop, please – My…” Sherlock buries his head against a cushion, his words muffled. 

“Make what stop?” 

“My brain. It won’t shut off. And I want them. My veins itch for them, Mycroft. The downers. Opioids. Benzodiazepines. I will even take alcohol. I don’t care.”

Mycroft closes the thick curtains, leaving the room in darkness. The light, however dim, is most likely not helping with the situation.

“What do you want me to do, little brother?” 

“I don’t think there’s anything you could do.” Sherlock says, moments later – sounding hopeless and dejected. “It will pass.” 

“Do you want me to go?” 

“No. Stay.” Sherlock mumbles. “Please.”

“Okay. I will stay.” Mycroft takes a seat beside Sherlock. His fingers – of their own accord – find themselves in his brother’s hair, and he gently caresses. 

In the darkness, he could feel Sherlock shiver and shake – going through what is called Post-Acute Withdrawal Syndrome. From what Mycroft understands, it seems that everyone has different experiences from not experiencing any symptoms to feeling unwell all the time; for Sherlock, they show up as ‘attacks’ or ‘episodes’ of intense craving, depression, irritability – a general feeling of unwellness. This one – aside from the one time where Sherlock had actually bought heroin – seems to be the worst that Mycroft had seen so far. He does get up to fetch the quilt on the spare bed, to drape his brother with it. 

“Will this ever get better?” Sherlock whispers, minutes later. 

“Yes.” Mycroft says encouragingly. “It will.” 

“Do me a favour?” Sherlock asks.

“Anything.” 

“Can you fetch the envelope in my coat pocket and bring it here?” 

“Of course.” Curious, Mycroft stands up, pats his brother’s arm and walks out of the room.

*

It doesn’t take much deduction to figure out that the simple white envelope contains notes. Money. But Mycroft doesn’t open it. He returns back to Sherlock, who is still curled up – but in a looser way – evidently slightly improved from the state he had been in when Mycroft had first stepped into the room. 

“Found it?”

“Yes. It’s money. Why?” 

“It’s for you.”

Mycroft is flabbergasted. He opens the envelope, and in the darkness – he counts the crisp new notes – knowing that they are all fifty-pound in denomination. There is about fifteen hundred grand in here. 

“But why?”

“For all the money I spent on drugs. I earned it all. Part-time job. Barista. On campus. Tedious. But penance ought to be tedious. I also helped a few people with personal problems, and that made up the rest. Brother. Take it.” His brother says – insistently. 

“I can’t take this from you, Sherlock.” Mycroft says, his voice wavering from some undefined emotion. Pride. 

“Please.” Sherlock adds, and Mycroft can almost see his brother’s eyes imploring him in the darkness. “Do whatever you wish with the money. Buy something for  _ yourself  _ for once.” 

“Sherlock…” Mycroft sighs, fanning the notes with his fingers. 

There’s no way he could ever spend this money, knowing that his brother had gone out of his way to earn it in a fashion that Mycroft never would have thought that Sherlock had been capable of doing. He hadn’t even known that his brother had been working over the last few months. Damn. He would have loved to see his brother make beverages for and interact with the goldfish he cannot stand. It’s too late now, Sherlock had quit his job before the study week for his winter exams, as he had actually been sitting at home all day – studying, working on the figures for a paper and doing the statistical analyses for his thesis. A lost opportunity.

No, he’s better off displaying the money in a frame or something – as paradoxical as it seems, this wad of notes is priceless. 

***

“Mm… bored.” 

Sherlock wanders into Mycroft’s study. He wraps his arms around Mycroft’s shoulders and nuzzles his face into the scent gland. It is very distracting – as Mycroft is trying to figure out what went wrong in the latest MI6 mission. There is a traitor – a spy amongst the ranks. 

“Do you not have readings or assignments to do?” 

“Boring and done.” Sherlock huffs, impatiently – displeased with Mycroft’s feeble attempt to shoo him away. “Entertain me, big brother.”

“I was not put into this world for your entertainment, Sherlock.”

“Mpph.” Sherlock ignores Mycroft’s statement, and continues with whatever he is doing – which is doing things to Mycroft’s libido that is inappropriate for times outside of estrus. Before Mycroft could make a more serious attempt at getting his brother to leave – Sherlock stops of his own accord and his finger suddenly points to one of the files. 

“He did it.” Sherlock states. “Frederick Arnolds; he is likely a Russian secret agent sent to infiltrate the ranks of your minions.” He then proceeds to rattle off an impressive list of deductions from the reports that he had caught sight of and read while he had been scenting Mycroft. 

“This is classified information.” Is all that Mycroft could say in response.

“But now it’s a classified solved case.” Sherlock smirks. “And I’ve already forgotten everything important. Come on, brother – indulge me!” 

“Maybe you should come work for me.” Mycroft thinks – a place where he could always have an eye on little brother.

Sherlock shakes his head. “It will be fun for the first month, and then I will be bored of all the intrigue, brother. I can’t stand politics in large doses – you know that. Come – let’s go for ice cream or something!” 

Sighing (not really), Mycroft stands up and follows his not-so-errant little brother out of his study and into the unknown.

*

On their way back from ice cream – they had shared a sundae (an enormous Knickerbocker Glory – built of a base of strawberry compote, followed by vanilla ice cream, chocolate sauce and strawberry ice cream – complete with a covering of whipped cream and topped with almonds, strawberries, chocolate and almond tuile). This type of dessert is more of a guilty pleasure for Mycroft than Sherlock – but he could tell that Sherlock had enjoyed it too. He had particularly liked watching Sherlock lick at the long spoon, covered in ice cream and whipped cream – and it doesn’t take much for him to start imagining what his brother’s tongue could do, swirling teasingly around his cock. 

There is a fair bit of late-February snow on the ground, and Mycroft yelps in surprise when he feels something hit his back. Turning around he sees Sherlock looking innocently at him, his leather-clad hands hidden behind his back. Only his eyes give him away – not to mention that aura of mischievousness that appears to be radiating from him. It’s getting easier and easier to read feelings between them – a side-effect (an intended effect) of all that scenting and all that fucking during the one heat they had shared. Oxytocin. Dopamine. Vasopressin. All these chemicals are working to create a bond of sorts between them, without them actually bonding. 

“Did I imagine it? That a snowball hit my back – Sherlock?”

“I would  _ never  _ do such a thing, Mycroft.” He winks.

“You are such a liar, little brother.” As he squats down to gather his own snow for ammunition, his brother starts heading off towards the nearby park. “Oh, I am going to make you regret your impulsive decisions, Sherlock.” He sprints after his brother – who picks up the pace a little more – having heard him start running after him. Despite his desk job, Mycroft does run on a treadmill regularly – and he has a feeling that Sherlock intends to get caught – as his brother is far more fit than he is. 

Somehow, when he catches up to his brother to stuff his snowball down Sherlock’s back – they end up tussling on the snow-covered ground of the park – trying to smear the snow all over themselves like rowdy children. His legs are straddling his brother’s thighs and he realizes that his face is very close to his brother’s. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off Sherlock’s skin. It’s ridiculous to feel awkward in this situation – considering that they had been scenting each other for days, months now – but there is just something different. Something emotionally charged in this situation. 

Sentiment. 

It gives him pause. Instead, he brushes the snow off his jacket and wool trousers – letting the moment disappear, and when he stands to get up – he cannot help but feel a keen sense of disappointment. 

Whether or not it is emanating from him or his brother – he could not say.

***

A female Beta points Mycroft toward the direction of the storage room, and she waggles her eyebrows suggestively. A graduate student, working on her PhD – judging by the data on her laptop – her dissertation will be on x-rays and their relation to black holes. 

“He’s in there, sir – I chased all the Alphas out of the lab. And I will keep everyone else away if you need to take the edge off the heat before taking him away.”

“Uh… thank you, Miss…” It feels strange to talk about his brother like this with another person.

“Emily Miller. Call me Emily. Don’t worry – my brother is an Omega, and Sherlock isn’t the first Omega to enter estrus in the lab space. Go on, he’s waiting for you. The code is four and two together, and then three.” She turns back to focus on her research, and Mycroft walks toward the thick door.

Cautiously he enters the code, and then he opens the door. The aroma of Sherlock in heat hits him hard, and he slams the door behind him. His brother is trembling – leaning over a counter next to a sink, still clad in his clothes. He doesn’t even remember precisely what happened, but the next thing he knows is that he is balls-deep in Sherlock – fucking him roughly against the counter, coaxing the most wanton of noises out of his brother. The grip he has on his brother is rough enough to leave bruises through his shirt on his sensitive skin. 

The sounds of their breathing grow increasingly stilted as Mycroft feels his knot begin to inflate – and Sherlock whines every time when the knot rubs against his prostate. It is too much – but at the same time, not enough. When his knot finally takes, Mycroft cums in explosive bursts – filling his barren brother’s womb with hot semen and sperm, breeding him in the way he needs it. Mycroft moves his hands to brace himself against the counter, trying to catch his breath without squashing his brother. 

“You came.” Sherlock’s voice is soft. 

“Of course I did.” Mycroft presses a kiss against his neck.

“Mm… and you fucked me in the lab. I like that.” 

“Did you really? Is this intentional, brother?” For the first time, Mycroft looks around, seeing the shelves filled with scientific equipment and reagents, organized by laboratory. It is rather, a tight space. But enough for a fuck in the dark.

“No. I got carried away. My organic synthesis worked out yesterday, and I was just trying to set up everything for a repeat. My advisor thinks I could actually get this paper into  _ Nature Chemistry _ , if I could just refine the process a bit more. He’s completely changed his tune regarding Omegas… He was trying to recruit me into doing a PhD this morning during our weekly meeting.” 

“My brilliant brother. Of course. Well… you did tell me months ago that you felt like this project was set up to fail. But, I always knew you could do it.” Mycroft affectionately brushes his nose against Sherlock’s neck – near his scent gland. “And not many undergraduates, if at all – will have a first-author paper in such a prestigious journal.”

“Mm… are we going to go home afterwards?” 

“Do you think you can handle without a cock up your arse for half an hour? Charles is waiting outside the building.”

“Yeah, I guess. I know you prefer to not do these sorts of things in a public space.” Mycroft can almost hear Sherlock’s teasing smirk – he just cannot see it from where he is standing. 

“Well, I’ve never done anything in this sort of space, Sherlock. And – I could see we weren’t going anywhere until I fucked you back into some sort of coherence.” 

“The sacrifices you make for me, My.”

Indeed. Mycroft thinks as he wraps his arms around his brother’s slender waist. Really, the only sacrifice is a PhD student who is no doubt fantasizing about what is going on in the storage room. Betas can only dream of the intensity of the sex that happens between an Alpha and an Omega. 

*

“Mm… My – need you. Need your big thing…” Sherlock pleads – delirious with heat. 

“I’ve got you, little brother.” Mycroft presses kisses against his face and neck – letting his sentiments toward his brother be expressed, although he hasn’t had the guts? (fortitude) to kiss his brother on the lips. “Always have your back. Mm… gorgeous Omega. So good for me.” He mumbles, the nonsense that Alphas croon to Omegas coming easily to his lips during rut. 

“Only good for you.” Sherlock replies, helpfully letting his legs fall to the sides, allowing Mycroft access to his rosy orifice, glistening with slick. 

“You better.” Mycroft growls, somewhat possessively, before he sticks his tongue out to lap at the ambrosia leaking from his cloacal glands, using his hands to caress whatever skin he could get at – before dedicating himself to worship of Sherlock’s glorious arse. 

*

“Mycroft!” Sherlock shouts in surprise when Mycroft picks him up from the bed.

With one fluid stroke, he thrusts into his brother – the motion causing Sherlock’s back to hit the wall slightly, causing a guttural moan of pleasure to leave his mouth.

“You like this, don’t you – being picked up and manhandled by an Alpha, don’t you?” 

“God, you feel so good.” Sherlock’s eyes roll back in pleasure, especially when Mycroft steps back from the wall periodically, letting gravity impale him further on his Alpha cock. “Didn’t think you would have it in you – to slam an Omega into a wall.” 

“You are talking too coherently, brother – this is unacceptable.” Mycroft tuts, teasingly before lifting Sherlock away from the wall – using all his muscles to fuck him without outside support. 

“Mm… then you got to do bet– god – My – do that again.” 

Mycroft rolls his hips and thrusts into him again, using the same angle. His brother lets out a pleased moan. He repeats it a few more times, before he stumbles with Sherlock back towards the bed, his thighs and other muscles that he hadn’t been aware of their existence cramping up painfully from the combination of the lack of use and lactic acid buildup. There is perhaps a logical rationale as to why Alphas like to go to the gym so much, and it might be a strong enough reason for him to start lifting weights. 

Damn. 

With the remainder of his strength, he thrusts one, two and three more times into his Omega (his!) and his knot takes, flooding his brother with cum from his multiple ejaculations. He collapses heavily against his brother, who wraps his arms around Mycroft with a satisfied little smile. It is Sherlock who, minutes later, tentatively brushes his inexperienced lips against his own – their first little kiss. It is so sweet, to the point where Mycroft could feel his chest start to ache with unexpressed emotion.

***

“You did it, little brother.” Mycroft says softly, after the graduation ceremony, admiring Sherlock still attired in his black cap and gown. “I always knew you could.”

“Mm…” Sherlock gives a small, almost melancholic smile. “Yeah.” 

Ever since the last heat, there seems to be a tinge of sadness? to his brother, and Mycroft could not understand for the life of him why. It had been a good one, where they had tried all those interesting sex positions from a guide that Sherlock had found online. Sherlock had seemed content, well-shagged out and it had been surprisingly affectionate for two people who are not the most demonstrative. Any questions about his brother’s mood would shut him down even further. And, it causes Mycroft worry. Sherlock had said it had nothing to do with the drugs, which puzzles Mycroft even more. 

“And your paper got accepted by  _ Nature  _ today. You could go to any lab you wanted to in the world, and they would take you as a graduate student.” 

“Turned out the way I did my synthesis was novel.” Sherlock’s smile grows a little larger. “It will revolutionize things in a bunch of industries. But, Mycroft – I don’t care about who wants me as a graduate student. I just want to stay in London.” He states. “If I leave, I feel like I will fall back upon old habits…”

No. Mycroft doesn’t want his brother to leave either. He would miss him, desperately. But what he really wants is Sherlock to be happy. To be that bright, bratty being he had been before that heat. 

What he would give to hear a nasty remark from his brother’s witty tongue at this moment! 

“You can stay with me for as long as you’d like.” Forever. Mycroft offers. 

“Even… if you find an Omega you want to be with?” Sherlock asks, his voice faltering with trepidation.

“Sherlock. I will never leave you. Certainly not for another Omega.” Mycroft says, firmly – needing to do anything to mitigate the anguish in his brother’s eyes. 

God. Where had his brother even gotten that thought from? He certainly hadn’t mentioned any other Omegas around Sherlock’s vicinity within the recent months. 

“You’re still relatively young, My. Twenty-eight. You could change your mind.” Sherlock replies, listlessly.

“No.” Mycroft shakes his head. “Never. I assure you. Come, brother – let’s go celebrate your achievements, and get some pictures taken of the both of us before we go. Alright?”

Sherlock nods, looking somewhat brighter by the conversation, but Mycroft could still feel the aura of gloominess emanating from his brother. He had offered his brother the chance to see a psychiatrist – but of course, Sherlock had refused. Things like major depressive disorder had crossed Mycroft’s mind.

Before they go to get their pictures done by the professionals eager to make some money, Mycroft buys Sherlock a bouquet of roses from the lady selling them from a tent. 

The flowers are a vivid red, a pretty contrast against Sherlock’s paleness. He had been afraid that his brother wouldn’t appreciate such a gesture, but Sherlock holds the roses close to the left side of his chest – over his heart. His long fingers reverently stroke the softness of the petals. Sherlock looks beautiful – gorgeous… all those adjectives seem to be inadequate to describe what Mycroft sees. 

Hmm… What is up with you, little brother? 

Mycroft ponders as they walk toward the photographers’ tent. 


	3. Chapter 3

When Sherlock arrives home late in the evening from the back of a police cruiser in early September, Mycroft runs to the front door in alarm. He finds his brother talking to a Beta Detective Inspector, his voice brimming with an excitement that Mycroft hasn’t heard in a while. There is a delicate flush to his brother’s face, and his eyes almost dance as they discuss a case that Sherlock had apparently solved single-handedly this afternoon just from one glance at the murder scene. 

Seeing Mycroft open the door, the DI immediately turns toward him, and introduces himself. A friendly, good-natured man with prematurely graying hair. It suits the DI. And, most importantly – the Beta is married and has a child – a girl. “Gregory Lestrade.”

“I hope my brother wasn’t causing you any trouble, DI Lestrade.” He remarks, earning a glare from his brother.

“No harm. No – in fact, he cleared up quite a few points about our case. Had to stop my Detective Sergeant from arresting him at the scene.” The DI actually chuckles. “She thought he was the killer based on how much he knew.”

“Ah, my brother is harmless – well... most of the time. Glad you can make use of him. Good evening.” Mycroft heads back into the house after closing the door behind him, and Sherlock follows. 

“You disapprove?” Sherlock asks once they have sat down at the dinner table – which had already been set by Mycroft almost thirty minutes ago.

“No. Just surprised. Let’s just say that there aren’t many conclusions one can draw when one’s little brother emerges from the back of a cop car. Do… be careful, brother mine.” Mycroft helps himself to a freshly pan-fried lamb chop. “It’s not the safest of professions.” 

He wouldn’t talk his brother out of it; anything that could make Sherlock enthusiastic and not melancholic is welcome in his book these days. 

“It’s interesting. I think I will keep it as a hobby. Lestrade said he would give me a call when he has a case that stumps him.” Sherlock says, thoughtfully, before serving himself.

***

“Oh Sherlock!” Mycroft exclaims in relief when he finds his brother trapped in the rubble of what was formerly a house still under construction located in the outskirts of London. “Do you know how worried I had been?”

Sherlock looks up at him, his body bruised and his hands raw from attempting to dig his way out of the space he had been trapped in. He looks dazed. The good Detective Inspector had said that his brother had been looking into a case involving a few of the workers who work for the company that is currently building this neighbourhood of houses. The suspect had rigged an explosive to go off when Sherlock had been in the semi-built house, searching for evidence. 

Mycroft clears away the rest of the rubble to make an opening amidst the wooden beams that had collapsed, and he crawls into the space Sherlock is in. He checks him over quickly – making sure he doesn’t have any serious injuries that need emergent medical attention, before enveloping him in a hug, not caring about the dust that covers his brother. It is only sheer luck that Sherlock hadn’t been struck by any of the fallen structural elements of the house. His brother sighs, leaning into Mycroft’s embrace. 

“I am fine – My. Just bruises.” Sherlock rasps, his throat evidently parched. “Get me out of here?”

“Yes. For sure.” Mycroft nods, taking a moment to scent his brother – comforting them both. 

“You came for me.” There is surprise in his brother’s voice.

“Always.”

“I know who killed the plumber.”

And almost killed you… 

“Brilliant.” Mycroft says instead. “I am sure the DI will be happy to hear it.”

_ Your loss would break my heart.  _

***

“Mycroft, more!” Sherlock gasps when Mycroft fucks into him – missionary style, on the bed.

“Mm… so demanding, gorgeous Omega.” He says, teasingly, but he obeys, eliciting delicious noises from Sherlock. 

It is the tail end of heat, where both are exhausted, but their minds are clear. Mycroft had taken his time, trying to show his brother how much he cares, how much he wants and how much he adores him. His tongue and fingers had danced over flesh, taking the time to visit all the spots that Sherlock enjoys – the curve of his ear, a certain spot next to his scent gland, his nipples, his umbilicus and the sensitive skin of his inner thighs before sucking at Sherlock’s glans, lapping up all the precum leaking from his slit. 

It doesn’t take long before he knots his brother. Mycroft shudders through his multiple ejaculations, sending his hot seminal fluids deep within the arse he is buried in. When he returns back to his senses, his hand tenderly reaches up to cup his brother’s cheek, and he initiates a kiss – for the first time on the lips. Taking care to obtain the data from Sherlock’s lips – Mycroft kisses slowly, and thoroughly. He nips at a corner, causing Sherlock to part his lips in surprise, and he sneaks his tongue in – plundering the warm cavern. Delicately, Sherlock touches his own tongue to Mycroft’s, learning a new sort of dance; their entwining muscles expressing more in this fashion than either could dare to speak. 

When Mycroft’s knot deflates, and his cock slips out for the last time during this particular heat, Sherlock whines, bereft. 

Mycroft notices that his brother seems to be on the verge of tears. 

“Sherlock, what is wrong?”

His brother shakes his head. Tiredly. “Please, Mycroft, don’t ask me now. I can’t.” He whispers, as Mycroft tenderly cradles Sherlock’s body against his own. 

It has been almost eight months since the melancholic spell had taken possession over his brother. This really should not go on any longer. Mycroft can’t stand it. His brain thinks back, conjuring up images of the snow fight in early March, their heats, their interactions during their everyday routines, the roses – his brother asking him if he would ever take another Omega into his life… 

Fuck. 

Mycroft realizes the cold and bitter truth only now. 

His brother loves him, and he thinks that Mycroft doesn’t return his feelings. 

The trail of evidence could be traced even earlier, the scenting (Sherlock hadn’t forgotten the spray that fateful day, it had been an ingeniously crafted excuse for the both of them to scent each other regularly) and his brother’s irritability and frustration whenever Mycroft had pushed him away whenever he had got too aroused outside of Sherlock’s heats. Sherlock had given up those spontaneous displays of affection after their second heat, only to withdraw deep into himself – and to work himself to the bone at UCL on his new research projects. 

He had taken Mycroft’s rejections outside of heat to heart.

Mycroft curses; he is probably the most idiotic Alpha to ever grace this planet.

He could tell that Sherlock is only pretending to be asleep to avoid unwanted questions, despite both their exhausted states. Words won’t help him now, but he could take another type of risk… 

Slowly, he leans toward his brother’s neck. Mycroft scents him first, rubbing his nose against his neck, before letting his teeth deliberately scrape against his scent gland. Generally, this is a big no-no between casual Alpha and Omega pairs; an Omega typically behaves in one of two ways when Alpha teeth and scent glands are involved: 1) violently or 2) in Sherlock’s case – he relaxes visibly – letting out a sigh. 

It doesn’t just mean that an Omega trusts an Alpha – it means that the probability of the Omega willing to bond with the Alpha is almost a certainty. 

Sherlock’s eyes open in surprise. Mycroft lets his teeth deliberately graze the skin again – reiterating his message. Those beloved plush lips break into a smile. A big one. Not one of those partial or tiny smiles that Sherlock had occasionally deigned to throw Mycroft’s way over the past months like table scraps. It feels like the sun has finally arrived – shining its radiance upon Mycroft, after being drenched with months of seemingly endless rain. 

“We will talk later, Sherlock – let’s just sleep.” He manages. The lassitude is finally hitting him like a ton of bricks. 

But before Mycroft slips off into slumber, he whispers with conviction in his brother’s ear. “I love you too.” His arms wrap tightly around Sherlock’s torso, spooning him. 

When he wakes up next, his brother is gone – having gone to the lab to tend to his neglected experiments. His eyes catch sight of a non-anatomically correct heart (bearing a M + S) and a smiley face that Sherlock had drawn on a post-it note stuck to the pillow he had used. Mycroft smiles, before getting out of bed to start his own day. 

*

_ When are you going home? SH _

_ When are you planning to head back? MH _

_ Thirty minutes? I am almost done here. SH _

_ Do you want to go out for dinner? MH _

_ Mycroft… I would rather just eat at home. SH _

_ With you. SH _

_ Whatever you want. How about takeaway at that new French place? MH _

_ It’s on the way home. I can go fetch it if you call in an order. SH _

_ Okay, I will do so now. MH _

_ See you soon. SH _

_ Yes, see you. MH _

*

Nervously, Mycroft sets the table. Not the enormous, somewhat intimidating one that he has for show in the formal dining room, but a small one that seats two in the homely living room. He had dug out his finest porcelain dishes and silverware from the cupboards. Because – when else is he ever going to use this stuff? And in such a deserving fashion? There is an empty vase partially filled with water; the bouquet of roses that Mycroft had bought on a whim on the way home lies on Sherlock’s side of the table. A single solitary squat and pale candle sits in the centre of the table. It is the only candle that Mycroft could find in his drawers. 

He closes his eyes and counts to ten. This is just dinner with his brother; the same brother he had eaten dinner with more days than not for the past year or so. Ah. But this is Sherlock. The man he loves.  _ His  _ Omega (or so he hopes!). Provided that he hadn’t fucked this up already beyond repair. If one suggested to him last year if Sherlock would be the type of Omega that would want to be wined and dined: the whole nine yards – he would have laughed. 

But now all he can see is his brother at graduation in June – in his robes and with his hair curling from under his cap – holding those roses; the touch of sadness marring what should have been a happy day. Mycroft doesn’t think he can even stand to look at the pictures now, even though he has one framed in all of his offices and his study. 

“Brother, what is this?” 

In surprise, he turns around, seeing his brother in the living room. He hadn’t even heard him disarm the alarm, open the front door and walk in here. Sherlock is wearing a salmon-coloured shirt with the collar left open and a pair of tight-fitting jeans – the bags of takeaway still in his hand. He looks tired. Bewildered. As if in shock that someone would bring out their finest china for him, or buy him unreasonably expensive flowers. 

His brother drops the takeaway bags on a chair, before reaching over to pick up the bouquet. Those blue-green eyes scrutinize them; his nose inhales their fragrant scent and his fingers reach out to touch the velvety petals. His eyes then shut; his brows furrow, as if pondering some philosophical question. Mycroft feels a desperate urge to reach over and hug him. His instincts tell him to stay put, letting his brother process the situation. Eventually, Sherlock unwraps the bouquet, putting the flowers in the vase. He also picks up the lighter (the same one Mycroft had used to light the last cigarette that he had smoked) and lights the candle. 

His voice is a murmur. “You didn’t have to do this. For me.”

“Sherlock. It’s not a matter of ‘have to’; it is a matter of ‘I want to’.” It feels like déjà vu – this conversation. 

How things have changed. 

For the better. 

Sherlock looks stunned, before he recovers his wits. “Let’s eat before everything gets cold.” 

*

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Mycroft asks, when Sherlock crawls onto his lap – after all the dishes had been washed and the delicious leftovers put away. 

There is enough to make lunches for both of them to bring to work tomorrow. 

“Tell you what?” Sherlock replies with a question; clearly uncomfortable with this conversation. He fidgets, and Mycroft wraps an affectionate arm around his waist. “That… I was – for the lack of better terminology – heartsick? No. Mycroft – I couldn’t. You made it clear to me through your actions. I almost considered moving out. But… I couldn’t bring myself to do that either.”

“Sherlock. I… I am so sorry.” Mycroft whispers, his nose lightly brushing against his brother’s neck, savouring his scent. “I was stupid. And blind. I neglected you terribly.”

“I thought your desires were more of a lust than a love. That you were willing to service me throughout my heats, but not offer anything beyond that.” 

“I have to admit… Sherlock – that it started off that way. Don’t get me wrong – I cared for you. I always did. But, my desires were more lust than love. Initially. I stayed away – as you had rightly deduced from the very beginning – feeling that such fancies would lead to both our ruins.”

“But Mycroft – in that sense, I used you too. I knew you were willing to fuck me through my heats, so I took advantage of that. You were the only Alpha… that I didn’t find repulsive. But… I didn’t expect… sentiment. It took me by surprise. You… cared for me. Made me do things that I didn’t want to do – but should have done. You made me want to do things that I would have never done on my own. And then – I thought it was a cruel joke that of course – I learned to care for you, big brother. Adore you. I wanted more. But you seemingly didn’t. At least, not outside of heat. I thought that I could bear that, but yesterday – when you kissed me – it destroyed me. Knowing what I could have – but couldn’t? Myc–”

Mycroft cuts him off with a kiss – revisiting the kiss from yesterday. It is made somewhat sweeter without the influence of heat. A voluntary dance. An Argentine tango. Sensual and slow. He could taste dinner: those lovely scallops, the creamy escargot, the duck confit with duck-fat fried potatoes – the exquisite red wine, the fragrant and sweet crème brûlée. And Sherlock. Their kiss grows fervent, before they break apart and begin anew. Mycroft kisses to say ‘I love you’, ‘I am sorry’ and ‘I want to make things up to you’ – while Sherlock’s kisses are more grateful in nature. 

It leaves Mycroft with a bittersweet feeling. He wants his brother back. The one that had insisted that Mycroft dance with him – and then promptly grabbed his hands to put them in a proper starting position. The one who had thrown a snowball at him, and lied about it in an obvious fashion. This Sherlock feels fragile. Both physically and emotionally. He scents his brother, using his hand to gently run through his silky curly locks. 

It will take time. 

Sherlock sighs contently, and snuggles against Mycroft’s torso – their bodies slotting together as snugly as two puzzle pieces meant to be pieced together. 

*

“Hold me?” Sherlock asks when Mycroft climbs onto his side of the bed.

“Course.” He immediately complies with his brother’s request, bringing his armful of Sherlock closer to his chest – his heart. “Anything else?”

“No.” 

“Good-night, little brother.” Lowering his head, he bestows a kiss on his brother’s curls. 

“Night, Mycroft.” 


	4. Chapter 4

“Should I… ditch the appointment?” His brother asks tentatively.

“What appointment?” Mycroft inquires, curious due to the ambiguity of his brother’s question.

“You know. That one. The one I go to two times a year for.” Sherlock offers more information, before resting his head on Mycroft’s shoulder. “With Dr. Kim.” 

Oh. That one. The birth control. In order to bond, it is generally recommended that the Omega be cleared of all exogenous hormonal substances. For they can interfere with the chemistry involved in the bonding; and also – dampen the pleasure for the Omega. The former had been verified with peer-reviewed research; the latter anecdotal. 

“It’s up to you, brother mine.” Mycroft gently runs his hands along his brother’s back. 

There’s still time – at least two months before Sherlock’s heat appears again. 

“You would bite me?” 

“I will bite you wherever and whenever you want me to.” 

“Mm…” Sherlock then frowns. “I could end up… knocked up.”

“Well, birth control does have a purpose…” Mycroft says – with a teasing lilt. 

With his hand, he gently pats Sherlock’s flat belly; it is a toned one with a well-defined rectus abdominis that any macho Alpha would be proud to have. Certainly, it looks far better than his own – which had only seemed to grow flabbier with every year that he had been his desk job. 

Mycroft then muses, more out of curiosity. Testing the waters, really. “Would it really be that bad to bear my kit?” 

That question takes Sherlock by surprise. It is as if his brilliant brother had never considered such a possibility. It takes a long moment before he shakes his head. “No. It wouldn’t.” He then says – sadly. “But… the odds are that I would miscarry – considering how similar our genetics are. You know that mechanism that checks the compatibility of sperm and ovum during fertilization that was recently discovered in Omegas?” 

The emotion in his brother’s voice surprises him. But, Sherlock is an Omega after all – with supposedly some instinct to breed and have kits with an Alpha he adores hidden somewhere within his complex mind. Not that there's anything wrong with an Omega not wanting to have kits. Mycroft thinks back to a popular scientific theory on Omega scents and genetic compatibility. Somehow, he thinks that it wouldn’t be as much of a struggle as Sherlock had implied getting bred would be. He then offers. “If you really want to be bred, brother – we can keep trying until it happens.” 

“You would also be fine with me… aborting?” Sherlock asks, carefully.

“Brother – it’s your body. You decide. I want what you want.” Mycroft turns and presses a tender kiss against his cheek. 

Although, by now – Mycroft knows his sentimental brother well enough to know that he wouldn’t pursue such a course of action. But he could understand his brother’s concern – an Alpha can force their bonded Omega to carry a child to term, but they cannot enforce an abortion. Archaic. But, that is how things stand legally at the present in England. 

“We can also bond at a later date, if you feel that the complications are too inconvenient at this stage of your life.” He offers – knowing that it hasn’t been long at all since they had been ‘together’ as an Alpha/Omega couple. 

Barely a week, really. 

“No, Mycroft. I want to be bonded as soon as possible.” Sherlock turns down his offer. He then says – his eyes looking intensely into Mycroft’s own, “I’ve wanted you for too long. I tire of waiting.” 

“Alright.” Mycroft agrees. Wanting Sherlock to know for sure that his suggestion of pushing bonding to another date is for his benefit rather than because Mycroft doesn’t want to – he adds, passionately. “I want you too, Sherlock. To be your mate. I just want to make sure that the timing is right for you.”

“It is. My advisor would be supportive if I were to be what she calls ‘indisposed in the family way’.” And then he groans – the vain being within him starting to understand the other consequences that would occur if in the case pregnancy did occur. “I am going to get so fat…” 

***

“My!” Sherlock exclaims – playfully, as he tackles Mycroft down onto the bed – forcing him onto his back.

Blue-green-grey eyes twinkle mischievously at him, unburdened by the fervour of heat. There is a healthy flush to Sherlock’s face. Mycroft adores it. He lets his brother scent his neck, while he watches – curious as to where this would go. They hadn’t had sex outside of heat. Nor had they discussed it. Sherlock had been content with cuddling, kisses and tender touches – and Mycroft had been happy to provide what his brother had needed – or rather wanted from him. He would let his brother decide when he is ready for more. 

Fingers brush against the expensive fabric of Mycroft’s waistcoat, before undoing its buttons with care. For a man who hated ties, Sherlock’s digits stroke the soft silk of Mycroft’s loosened one with an unexpected reverence, before pulling it off in one smooth motion. His shirt goes next – revealing his darkly furred chest.

“Mm…” Sherlock brushes his face against Mycroft’s chest. “Furry.” 

“You’ve seen it many times by now.” Mycroft remarks, suddenly feeling self-conscious. 

It is normal for Alphas to be hairy; he thinks he has a nice chest – made nicer by the weights that he had started lifting half a year ago. 

“Usually, I was too preoccupied with other things, or too exhausted to appreciate it, brother mine.” Sherlock sighs. “Namely with getting your massive cock up my arse. I like this.”

“My chest?” 

“No. Yes. I mean it is a lovely chest. But I like that things aren’t urgent.”

“Brother. It can be urgent outside of heat, but never as frantic.” 

“I will take your word for it. But I can do this.” Sherlock buries his face against Mycroft’s chest, curling up against his body. 

Sherlock inhales, deeply – and Mycroft cannot help but to reach out and stroke his brother’s curly hair. There is something so sweetly innocent about his brother exploring him like this; his head resting on Mycroft like a pillow, his fingers reaching out to caress his body hair – like someone petting the fur of a soft, furry animal. Mycroft cannot help but to sigh when one of Sherlock’s wandering digits brushes lightly against one of his nipples. Curious, his brother repeats this movement – and he groans; the nub beginning to stiffen under tactile stimulation. 

“Mm… you like that.” It is an observation, not a question. 

A contented hum comes from Sherlock as he plays with Mycroft’s other nipple – and Mycroft gasps when a wet, warm tongue teasingly flicks at it, before a delicious amount of pressure is applied by Sherlock’s mouth. Damn. He could feel the sensations travel all the way down to his cock, which is beginning to grow turgid in the confines of his pants. 

“Sherlock…” He protests when his brother deliberately grinds his pelvis against Mycroft’s. 

“You are aroused.” 

Mycroft snorts. “Brilliant deduction, little brother.” 

“I’ve… never done this outside of heat, Mycroft.”

Taking pity on his brother, he asks. “What do you want, Sherlock?”

“I don’t know. There are too many permutations… Mycroft – help me…”

Grabbing his brother’s hair, he gently guides his face to his own – initiating a kiss. Sherlock sighs into it – his pliant lips easily allowing Mycroft access to his mouth. Mycroft could lose himself for hours like this – drowning in the taste of Sherlock while ignoring the growing problem in his trousers. With his free hand, he unzips Sherlock’s trousers and pulls down his pants. He cups his brother’s genitalia, gently stroking his smaller scrotal sac and cock. Sherlock’s groans are muffled, while his hips buck readily into Mycroft’s hand – seeking more stimulation. He permits his brother to fuck his hand, using precum as lubricant. 

“My… gonna cum.” Sherlock pants, after breaking apart from their kiss.

“Then let go.” Mycroft replies tenderly. “Let go, dear one.”

“But – what about you?” 

“I will take whatever you will give me, little brother.”

His brother’s breathing becomes increasingly stilted. His eyes are closed in pleasure. “God, My – feels so good.”

“I know. Sherlock. I know. Cum, my love.”

Sherlock cums with a gasp and a shudder – Mycroft catches the majority of the seminal fluid released from his cock in his hand, and licks the ejaculate off his hand. It has a slightly sweet taste to it – with a bit of salt. 

“Love you, My…” Sherlock rests his head against Mycroft’s shoulder – feeling dazed from the post-coital hormones. After taking the time to catch his breath, he asks. “How do you want me?”

“Sherlock. You don’t have to –” 

“I want to. Please, Mycroft – let me please you.” 

Mycroft takes his non-sticky hand and rests his palm against Sherlock’s jaw, using his fingers to rub at one of his beautiful cheekbones. His brother immediately leans the weight of his head against it, enjoying the touch. 

“You please me very much, Sherlock.” He says; he can tell that Sherlock is tired now – despite the exuberant manner that he had initiated the encounter with. And both of them would have to work tomorrow. However, he knows that Sherlock would not take Mycroft’s offer to look after his own release by himself very well. “Here.” He frees his own prick – now poking out of his own pants, and guides Sherlock’s hand to masturbate him. 

“I still can’t believe that this has been up my arse.” Sherlock remarks quietly – as Mycroft’s cock engorges further – frigged by both their hands. “There are a few Omegas and Betas in the lab, and they like to gossip. One time I overheard a conversation about measurements. Things like length and girth. They were trying to figure out whose significant other had the bigger phallus.”

“Ah, that's a typical goldfish conversation topic. It happens quite often in Whitehall.” He is surprised when Sherlock ducks down – and his pink tongue darts out to lick at Mycroft’s organ. 

He’s blown his brother before during estrus to get him ready for penetration, but Sherlock had never given him a blowjob. 

“Yours was easily the largest out of all the ones they mentioned. But I didn’t say anything even though they coaxed me to.” Sherlock resumes licking, pressing worshipful kisses at Mycroft’s deflated knot. “But I wonder, can we even have penetrative intercourse outside of estrus?” 

“We can, Sherlock.” Mycroft has fucked Betas with his cock – granted that they had all been size-queens who had prepared well beforehand. But it would be easier for Sherlock, as Omegas are more anatomically suited to take an Alpha’s cock. “We will just have to take things slowly. And use lots of artificial slick.” 

“I would like that.” Sherlock then opens his mouth wide and engulfs Mycroft’s glans in warm moist heat. 

God. Mycroft is now splayed against the headboard. He watches his brother work – using both of his hands to cover Mycroft’s cock – while his inexperienced mouth deals with the rest. The image of those plush pink lips forming an ‘o’ around his thick prick is seared into his brain. Saliva gets everywhere – his brother is drooling while struggling to take more of the organ deeper down his throat. 

Damn. It is fucking hot – to see Sherlock trying to stuff as much of Mycroft’s prick down his throat. Inevitably his brother gags – looking as undignified as Mycroft had ever seen him outside of withdrawal. The blowjob itself is sloppy and uncoordinated and has a little bit too much teeth. 

But Mycroft loves it. 

He tries to pull away when he feels his climax approaching, but Sherlock holds him tight; his brother had wisely given up the deep-throating, but he eagerly licks and sucks until Mycroft grunts – releasing a generous amount of ejaculate. Sherlock splutters and coughs when the hot, sticky seed hits the back of his throat – and most of the fluids end up intermingling with his own saliva – painting his dear lips and face. 

“Gorgeous.” Mycroft grins when his brother looks up toward him.

“I will get better at it.” Sherlock says, his voice raspy.

Damn. He’s made his brother sound like a whore. Mycroft doesn’t think a blowjob could be any better. He reaches over to rub some of his fluid deeper into Sherlock’s skin. 

“We should shower. You are a hot mess, little brother.”

“A mess I am, Mycroft… but…” He looks shy for someone who had been vigorously fellating Mycroft’s cock bare minutes ago. “Am I really deserving of all of these compliments?” The doubt goes straight to Mycroft’s heart.

He wraps his arm affectionately around his still shirt-clad Omega. Earnestly, he says, “Sherlock, you are hot. Beautiful. Most gorgeous Omega I’ve ever seen.” 

“Mycroft –”

“Sherlock. Please. I adore you. Love you beyond reason. I am sorry that I ever made you think otherwise, dearest. And you know me – I don’t give false compliments.” 

Hugging his brother to his bare chest, not caring about the fluids getting smeared around – Mycroft gently presses a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. 

***

Mycroft steps out of his car, bades the ever-reliable Charles good-night and walks the customary steps to his front door. The skies are growing darker these days as October flies by. He carries his umbrella in one hand – and a bouquet of flowers and a box containing certain someone’s favourite Portugese tarts in the other. Tucking his umbrella under his arm, he unlocks the front door – where he is promptly set upon by his brother. Before hanging his umbrella or taking off his coat, Mycroft leans a little forward to kiss Sherlock ‘hello’ and ‘I missed you’. And he promptly hands his brother his presents, so that he could disrobe. 

“I didn’t know you were one for Hallowe’en – brother.” Sherlock studies the flowers – orange roses, lilies, carnations, red mums and bright yellow sunflowers – and of course the pièce de résistance, a stuffed googly-eyed spider (the size of Mycroft’s hand) that sits on top. 

“I thought about getting you the one with the skull vase, but that might be a little much to bring back to Whitehall. Lady Smallwood walked by while I was returning to my office – and made such a face.”

“Ha. She has no taste. She’s just jealous, anyways.” Sherlock smiles brightly. “This is the first time you’ve bought me a stuffed animal, or rather arachnid. I approve. And I like the colours.” And then he adds. “I have no idea why Omegas marry Betas and then proceed to fuck Alphas behind their backs.” 

“The world is a strange place, brother mine.” Mycroft looks fondly at his brother, who is lightly petting the spider with his fingers. It’s not his place to judge Lady Smallwood’s decisions in life. “And, I see that you are up to something.”

“Oh! I made dinner!”

“And nothing exploded? No fires that needed to be put out? And it’s edible?”

“Mycroft! Keep that up and I won’t feed you.” Sherlock huffs adorably, crossing his arms against his charcoal-coloured shirt. 

Mycroft simply grins, as he allows Sherlock to lead him towards the living room – where a table had already been set up. His brother directs him to sit, before finding a vase for the flowers, lighting a neutral-smelling candle and disappearing off to the kitchen with the tarts – to bring back a heavenly smelling chicken and mushroom puff pie, a pea-based soup and a light garden salad. Two glasses are brought, and Sherlock pours some still water into both of them. An attempt to cut back on the British pastime – drinking. He wants to go grab a camera – to take the picture of the first meal Sherlock had ever made for him. 

“What made you decide to cook?” He asks curiously.

Sherlock isn’t particularly a keen doer of chores. Mycroft’s only stipulations for his brother over the past year or so had been to stay away from the drugs and to finish his degree. Mycroft had done almost everything – from cleaning, laundry and cooking, while Sherlock would sometimes wash the dishes, set the table for meals and if he is in a good mood – make tea and/or coffee. 

“I wanted to do something nice for you. And it isn’t particularly healthy to eat out all the time, Mycroft.” 

“Thank you. I only hope it’s as good as it looks.” 

Sherlock reaches over with a knife and cuts the pie, while Mycroft helps himself to one of the bowls of soup. 

“It is.” Sherlock says, confidently. “It’s only elementary chemistry, really.”

And it is. Mycroft eats heartily, and pays his brother the appropriate compliments (even if it hadn’t been a good attempt, he would have found something positive to say). The pastry has the perfect amount of crisp to go with the savoury chicken and mushroom – the soup perfect for a chilly autumn evening and even the salad is enjoyable. Maybe he should convince his brother to pack him lunch on occasion. 

His brother suddenly looks nervous. Taking a breath, Sherlock informs. “I am going to have to make a trip overseas, Mycroft. One of my abstracts got accepted to an international meeting, and I got asked to do a presentation. It will be in two weeks. In New York City.”

His brother suddenly looks concerned; evidently Mycroft could not keep his crestfallen expression off his face. So far away. He had gotten used to sharing his bed with his brother – smelling his scent, holding him in his arms… And Sherlock would be gone for probably a week… or more. There is no way he could block off that much time to go with his brother at such short notice. 

“My?” Sherlock walks over from his side of the table. 

He rests his hands on Mycroft’s shoulders and proceeds to scent him. Mycroft guides him to sit on his lap, and they scent each other.

“I will miss you too.” Sherlock whispers. “Everyone in the lab is happy for me. They want to throw a party. And there’s a little meeting at Oxford that I will go to over the weekend. And meanwhile all I can think of is how I am going to cope without you for five days. I would ask you to come with me, but I know – you realistically can’t. England would fall.”

“Ha.” Mycroft smiles, despite his feelings. “As I’ve told you many times – little brother, I am only occupy a minor position in –”

“Liar.” Sherlock smirks, redirecting his attention from Mycroft’s neck to his lips – allowing his own to brush against them in a gentle kiss. “I know that you are an important man, Mycroft. But you are the only one for me.” 

“Mm… Sherlock. I don’t look forward to my lonely bed.” The prospect is a grim one. Mycroft had spent the majority of his adult years by himself in his bed… and now the idea of it is absolutely unpalatable. 

“Maybe… I shouldn’t go –”

As tempting as it is to take the offer, Mycroft firmly says. “No, brother – I refuse to hold you back. Go. It’s only five days. Take some pictures. Do all the touristy things for me. I will make sure that you can text internationally. We will live.”


	5. Chapter 5

Spreading his brother’s generous cheeks wide, Mycroft proceeds to lap at the periphery of Sherlock’s rosy entrance. The sphincter clenches against his tongue – and Mycroft could only imagine how deliciously the muscles would cling around his cock. He pauses a bit to squeeze out some synthetic Omega slick, to further lubricate the tight passage. Working carefully, he slowly stretches his brother’s hole with a combination of fingers and tongue – very much enjoying the medley of sweet and arousing noises that fall unrestrainedly from his brother’s lips. It tastes different from when Sherlock is in estrus – there isn’t any of that aromatically addictive Omega slick that makes Mycroft want to lick and lick for one.

When he thinks he’s done enough, he rearranges their position – guiding Sherlock to ride his prick. His brother looks at Mycroft’s generously lubricated cock with a mixture of arousal and trepidation – for here goes their first attempt at penetration outside of heat. Just as he thinks Sherlock would say he wants a raincheck – his brother presses the rim of his hole against Mycroft’s glans – and slowly – ever so slowly, he sinks downwards. No doubt feeling the stretch – the burn as the organ breaches him. It is tight – far tighter than it would have been had Sherlock been in estrus. It is going to take a decent amount of willpower for Mycroft not to spend so soon. And then Sherlock clenches his arse partway through and Mycroft gasps at the sensation – almost seeing stars. 

“Too much?”

“God – brother – yes.” 

“This feels good, My.” Sherlock remarks as he undulates on Mycroft’s cock at midshaft – not taking his entire length. “Mm… so good, Alpha.” He mumbles as his eyes flutter shut.

There is nothing he likes better than seeing his Omega take his pleasure – he watches the hypnotic movement of Sherlock going up and down his prick, trying to get it to rub perfectly at all the right spots. Watching his brother’s beautiful body – all those angular planes and muscles moving in unison to fuck himself on Mycroft’s prick. 

And Mycroft wonders – what the next heat would bring. 

He could picture where his bondbite will be placed, on the scent gland on the right – over the scalenes. Would they be successful at conception on the first try? Sherlock is young and fertile. He cannot imagine it – his brother becoming gravid with his kit. His body would certainly change, rounding out, stretching and changing to adapt to the demands of pregnancy. 

Mycroft is surprised when he realizes that his knot is starting to inflate. It can happen outside of estrus, but it is an uncommon event. Unable to hold back any longer – as he had fought to keep himself still for the several minutes that Sherlock had been enjoying himself – he thrusts upwards, wrenching a surprised howl from his brother. He repeats the motion a few times, trying to angle his prick in the way he remembers Sherlock had liked during estrus, and when his knot finally takes – lodging itself against his brother’s prostate – Sherlock’s mouth falls in a soundless scream, his neck thrown back. Of agony or of pleasure – it is hard to read from his features. Unlike during estrus, Mycroft spurts once, sending a generous amount of hot cum deep into his brother, and his brother shudders in response – spending his own smaller load. 

Rearranging them, so that they could lie side by side – while his formidable prick still locks them together, Mycroft cautiously approaches his brother, unsure what his opinions on this new experience are. Sherlock’s arms immediately move – wrapping them around Mycroft’s shoulders. 

“Intense.” Sherlock simply offers. “Didn’t think your knot was going to appear, though.”

“I didn’t know either, little brother.” 

“I do like having your seed inside of me.” Sherlock wiggles his bum, causing Mycroft to groan as his prick gets pulled one way and another, sending signals of overstimulation to his brain.

“Keep still, please.” Mycroft requests. “It feels a lot more sensitive now, than when we fuck during a heat.” 

“Mpph. Sorry.” Sherlock apologizes. He then accuses. “You were thinking – while we were having sex.”

“Thinking is not a crime.”

“If you were thinking about work, My – I will be cross.”

“No, brother, I was not.” Mycroft is appalled. “Never. Thinking about how beautiful you are, fucking yourself on my prick. About how you would look with my bite. How you would look, bred with my kit. How lucky I am to have you in my life.” He nuzzles his brother’s scent gland, letting his teeth scrape the sensitive flesh. “Love you, dearest mine.”

“Love you too.” Sherlock gives Mycroft a beautiful smile, his eyes looking at him in adoration.

***

“Going to miss you.” Sherlock clings onto his brother just before the security checkpoint at Heathrow, his nose nuzzling against Mycroft’s scent gland. 

“Me too.” Mycroft presses a kiss on Sherlock’s forehead. It’s amazing how codependent the both of them have become since the last heat. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to see Sherlock off at Heathrow. But – how Sherlock’s eyes had shone when he realized that Mycroft was going to see him off. Reassuringly, he says. “It will be quick. You will be back before you know it.” 

Sherlock looks around, before brushing his lips quickly against his brother’s. “I guess, this is it…” He says forlornly. “I will see you soon, Mycroft.” 

“Go, before you change your mind, Lock.” Mycroft reaches up to cup his cheek, letting his finger gently run across his cheekbone. He takes a step back, trying to school himself back into some semblance of Mycroft ‘the minor government official’. “I love you.” 

“So do I.” Sherlock’s eyes are shining with unshed tears. Reluctantly, he grabs his luggage. “Goodbye, My.” 

Those blue-green-grey eyes look at him once more – causing something in Mycroft’s chest to constrict painfully. And then, Sherlock abruptly turns around and heads for the queue to clear security. He doesn’t look back. 

Mycroft doesn’t leave for a long while, even when Sherlock disappears from his view – feeling numb in a way he’d never felt before.

***

“What are you smiling at, Holmes?”

The Prime Minister eyes him impatiently, just as Mycroft clicks on an email that Sherlock had sent.

***

_ It’s only the first day, My. Yet, it feels like I haven’t seen you in a lifetime. The ghost of your last kiss visits my lips frequently. Thank you for upgrading my ticket to first-class. It was a much welcome and thoughtful surprise. It made the trip bearable.  _

_ I had the evening to myself, as my roommate, an Omega who works in the laboratory next to mine, will arrive in the morning. I wandered the streets of Manhattan. Had the customary slice of artichoke pizza. Some lemon tarts you would have loved from a quaint little bakery. Walked by Ground Zero and its makeshift memorials. Two fenced off craters. A desolate spot. Rubble everywhere despite the passage of a year since it happened. Don’t be surprised My, I do have some knowledge on happenings around the globe. I try to pay more attention to the news ever since we’ve been together. After all, you are the British Government. Before I left the area, I went into St. Paul’s chapel and just sat there on a pew. Missing you.  _

_ I will try and explore more cheerful and picturesque locales in the days to come.  _

_ I am okay.  _

_ Arachne says hi! _

_ X _

***

“Nothing, sir.” Mycroft says in his usual neutral voice, refocusing his attention back on the man. “What can I assist you with?”

“Ah, just a little matter of the issue with the French Ambassador. But, I can see that you are busy – and I believe I can solve this myself. You can’t fool me, Holmes; you are communicating with the missus, and trust me – that requires all your concentration.” 

To Mycroft’s utter shock, the man stands up from the chair, gives a little wave and walks out. 

Damn. Communicating with the missus, indeed! Shrugging – happy that the Prime Minister is going to delegate the banal task to some other unfortunate soul lower down on the totem pole, he clicks on the photo attachments of the email.

There is one of Sherlock lounging on the plane, with Arachne the little spider that Mycroft had bought for him resting on the table next to him. Another one of him eating pizza, and one of him wandering about Manhattan. 

Smiling, he clicks ‘reply’. 

*

Over the next few days, Mycroft receives the following from his brother.

_ This presenter doesn’t know what she is talking about! What a waste of time! God. I wish I was somewhere else. Preferably underneath you. SH _

_ The Americans have awful tea. SH _

_ My roommate dragged me out to go see Mamma Mia on Broadway. The plot was rather tedious. I can’t believe Mummy makes you go watch a musical once a year with her. SH _

_ And that you willingly go! SH _

_ Speaking of Mummy, does she mention me at all these days? SH _

_ You know what, I don’t want to know. SH _

_ *** _

_ \- Mycroft, _

_ I did some of the touristy stuff you requested. Attached is a photo of me at that spot on the Brooklyn Bridge that everyone poses at and another taken at the street in Dumbo with the Manhattan Bridge in the background. There’s another of me eating crab and lobster at one of the more popular seafood restaurants. And we had some Mexican hot chocolate (the one with chili peppers) to warm us up after our brisk walk across Brooklyn. I hope that satisfies you.  _

_ It feels strange to walk these places with another Alpha, Ernest, who hails from John Hopkins. We have a lot of interests in common and he’s surprisingly decent company. I can see your jealousy from here, My. He knows I am taken. And he has an Omega waiting back home for him too. Of course, my roommate, Anwen, comes with us as well. _

_ My presentation is tomorrow, wish me luck! _

_ I love you.  _

_ Always. _

_ *** _

_ It went well. SH _

_ Lots of people were interested in my work. Some of the questions a few of them asked were actually worth pondering about. For future projects. SH _

_ I can’t wait to see you in a few days. SH _

_ I miss you. SH _

_ Your scent is wearing off from Arachne. SH _

_ I wish I could do all of these things with you instead. SH _

_ We should go out on dates, brother. SH _

_ We will just stay away from the places Mummy or any of our relatives like to hang out. SH _

_ You know what, who cares, they will know sooner or later that we are together. SH _

_ Actually, let’s wait till we are bonded before we flaunt our love to the world. SH _

_ That way no one can take you away from me. SH _

_ Couldn’t sleep last night. Had to resort to taking your shirt that I took from the dirty laundry bin and kept sealed in a bag at the bottom of my suitcase in order to finally fall asleep. SH _

_ I foresaw that this would happen. SH _

_ I don’t ever want to leave you again. SH _

There are other pictures from emails – Sherlock presenting his research from a podium, another of him standing next to his poster, various pictures of Central Park with his companions, a fancy dinner at  _ Le Bernardin _ , at the Empire State Building, one of Sherlock, his female Omega roommate – Anwen and the Alpha Ernest, an authentic Chinese dinner at Flushing and even a picture of Sherlock posed innocently but nakedly in front of the mirror of the loo of his hotel room – his brother’s first ever endearing attempt at sending a nude.

***

“Sherlock, are you okay?”

Sherlock curls up in a ball of misery on his hotel bed. He feels weak and pathetic, filled with longing for his Alpha. It’s ridiculous, how he can’t even go a week without Mycroft. He doesn’t answer his concerned Omega roommate – Anwen, opting to bury his face deeper into Mycroft’s wrinkled bespoke shirt inhaling his Alpha’s fading scent, his hands clutching Arachne to his chest. It’s not heat. He’s not due till after the passage of New Year’s day. There are still two days left of this trip – and Sherlock is thinking about calling Mycroft right now and asking him to change his return ticket to tomorrow. 

“May I?” Anwen asks – sitting on Sherlock’s bed. 

He nods weakly, and he sighs when his fellow Omega gently rubs at his back and runs her fingers soothingly through his hair. Sherlock’s never had an Omega touch him like this before even though it’s rather common for Omegas to comfort one another like this. But then again, he’s never had a close Omega friend.

It’s funny how he and Anwen had never spoken despite working in the same space back at UCL, but perhaps now, he could call her his friend. She is the only other Omega his age who is working on a PhD on their floor. Something about viral receptor-mediated entry into epithelial cells. 

It’s obviously not the same as having Mycroft do this for him, but it's a heck of a lot better than nothing. 

“You miss him. Your Alpha.” She observes quietly.

“Yeah. I thought I could –” Sherlock mumbles.

“It’s okay. I miss mine too. Oliver was a little hesitant to let me come here on my own, considering my own heat is probably going to show up within a week or two. So I am cutting it rather close.” Anwen sighs longingly. “None of my stuffed animals smell like Oliver anymore, and you were smart to bring your Alpha’s dirty shirt. I should have thought of that.”

“The things Omegas go through…”

“Yeah. It’s awful – isn’t it?”

“God-awful.” Sherlock agrees. “I never wanted to be an Omega.”

“We all have those phases. The worst is when you are in heat, and there’s no Alpha in sight!” She then says shrewdly, “You’ve used them before – suppressants?”

“Yeah. For a while.” Sherlock mumbles, surprised that she wants to talk about such a controversial topic. But he finds himself trusting her. Her tone is all curiosity and no judgement. “I overdosed several times. Thought I could regulate my chemistry –”

“This was before you met your Alpha?”

Sherlock nods. “He makes me like being an Omega.”

“Figures.” Sherlock can hear the smirk in her voice. “I heard you guys – you know –”

“Oh good god.” Sherlock feels his cheeks colour somewhat – he knows what she’s referring to. The day that Mycroft had fucked him in that storage room. The copulating pair of Alpha and Omega may not be aware of it at the time, but heats are notoriously loud. Sherlock would know – he’s heard mating couples before who weren’t fortunate enough to find somewhere private before the estrus had made its demands known. “That was back when I was in undergrad.” 

“Ha. You sounded like you had a good time.” 

“Emily still looks at me funny every time I run into her.” He groans.

Anwen laughs. “Don’t mind her – she will never know. The highs and lows of being an Omega.” 

He changes the topic. “Weren’t Ernest and you going to go check out the museums today?”

“I texted him that we should just go for lunch. I didn’t want to leave you behind in your misery.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and takes a breath when she massages his shoulders. Mm… She won’t touch his neck – that’s territory only for an Omega’s Alpha to touch. 

“You thinking about bonding?”

“Yeah. Next heat.” Sherlock says. 

“Want kits?”

“Definitely.” Sherlock smiles – he finds himself surprisingly enjoying this stereotypical Omega-talk. Perhaps, it’s because he doesn’t have anyone else to talk to about his personal life besides Mycroft. He lets his hands go down to his muscular belly, allowing his palms to slide across the planes of his abdomen, over his empty uterus. “Want his kits.”

“I told Oliver that the only kit I intend to have is the one from our bonding heat since I will be off the contraceptive then. If he doesn’t get me pregnant then, he’s shit out of luck.” Anwen says firmly. “I want to focus on my research. But I wouldn’t want to abort any fruits of our love, though.” 

“I understand. And he’s amenable?” Sherlock asks, curious – considering that Anwen’s plan is rather not conventional, unlike his own. 

“Yes. Not all Alphas are conservative dicks, fortunately.” 

“They might have a big dick though.” Sherlock smiles fondly.

Anwen laughs so hard that she almost falls over. “I have to confess that I do love a big dick.”

“Ditto.” Sherlock grins broadly, feeling better in spite of himself. 

“You think you are feeling up to lunch?” Anwen asks after a long moment of silence where she continues to work on Sherlock’s back, making him melt into a puddle onto the sheets.

“Where are we planning to go?”

“Pho at Two Wheels. It’s a good walk away – near Central Park. And the weather is nice and sunny! Come on, Sherlock – let’s go. You’ve wallowed enough this morning.”

Sherlock lets himself be dragged out of the bed – and Anwen helps him prepare for the outing by laying out his clothes while he goes to the loo to wash up. 

***

Perhaps, Mycroft ought to have taken a taxi. He is surrounded by goldfish in a crowded subway car heading into Manhattan after having taken the more spacious AirTrain from JFK. This is even worse than the Underground… he muses – and he hadn’t ever liked taking public transport back at home, opting for his chauffeured Jaguar, or taxis for non-business related endeavours. There’s a crying child a few meters away, and it’s threatening to give Mycroft a migraine with its wails. It’s a relief when 23rd Street is finally announced, and Mycroft alights from the subway – vowing that he would take a taxi back to the airport. 

Good god. How much he misses his Lock. His Omega. He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep ever since Sherlock had left. To his regret, he had done all the laundry the day after Sherlock had left – and he had nothing of his Omega’s scent aside from Sherlock’s pillow and their shared quilt. He had even felt dismayed when he had finished the last of the food Sherlock had made for him – a mouthwatering mushroom risotto, eggplant parmesan, butter squash soup, a tub filled with jerk chicken and beans and a vegetable stir-fry. There had even been a pumpkin pie. His brother had cooked and baked the night before he had left, and Mycroft had relished every bite, amazed that little brother would do this for him. Otherwise, he would have eaten out for every single meal. He had spent every single day working late at the office, considering that he only had loneliness waiting for him back at home. 

The Prime Minister surprisingly had come by on Wednesday and asked him what was wrong. Mycroft had remained tight-lipped until the man deduced that it had something to do with ‘the missus’, which is when Mycroft confessed that he hadn’t seen his Omega all week as he had gone to America – and the man had insisted that Mycroft take the rest of the week off plus Monday, considering how little was going on in domestic politics. Internationally however – is a different story altogether. The worrisome spread of SARS in Guangdong, China. Predicting the next terrorist attack from militants and domestic cells that they had managed to radicalize. The war in bloody Afghanistan, where the fingers should have been pointed to the Saudis. The disarmament of Iraq per a recently passed UN resolution. 

He had gone home, and realized quickly that staying there for five days without his Sherlock would drive him insane, so he had bought himself a ticket to JFK instead. Somehow, he thinks the Prime Minister would approve of this spontaneous decision. Or perhaps, had intended things to happen like this. It might be that when it came to the matters of the heart – the man isn’t a complete idiot. 

Emerging out into the streets of Chelsea, Manhattan, Mycroft is greeted by the sun. It’s a brisk November afternoon. Taking out his phone, he texts.

*

_ What are you up to, Sherlock? MH _

_ We are at Central Park. Anwen wants to go on the carousel. Ernest wants to go play board games at the Chess and Checkers House. SH _

_ What do you want to do, dearest? MH _

_ I don’t know. SH _

_ Maybe skating? That might be fun. MH _

_ There’s a rink somewhere here. SH _

_ Okay, we’ve decided. After the carousel, we will go to Wollman Rink. SH  _

_ Thank you, big brother. SH  _

_ You are welcome. MH _

*

It can’t be. Sherlock feels it. That familiar calming sensation he gets when Mycroft is nearby. Sherlock comes to a stop in the middle of the rink with a huge spray of ice. He had lost Ernest and Anwen somewhere amongst the throng of skaters – both of them not quite as adept as Sherlock is. And then, he sees him. Mycroft. Trying to skate across the rink towards him. His Alpha’s strides are rather laboured, as he tries to get the hang of it. Surprisingly, Mycroft isn’t wearing a coat, but rather a shirt and jumper combination along with a pair of trousers more casual than his usual – looking more like a newly minted academic rather than a seasoned governmental official. Looking so handsome. But, he would recognize his Alpha anywhere. 

But how? Why? Does he not have work? 

The closer Mycroft gets, the less Sherlock cares about the answers. As his brother attempts to stop, he ploughs too hard and loses his balance, falling onto his bum. Sherlock grins – refraining politely from laughter, before offering a leather-clad hand to help him up, feeling like he’s a protagonist in one of those silly rom-coms that Mycroft occasionally makes them watch together. 

“This was less romantic than I had originally envisioned it, little brother.” Mycroft says a little ruefully, while trying to wipe the ice off his arse. His face is flushed, both from the cold and perhaps a bit of embarrassment. Sherlock finds it incredibly adorable.

“The fall wasn’t planned, I take it?” 

“No.” 

“I don’t care.” Sherlock opens his arms out and wraps them tightly around his brother. He lets his nose brush against Mycroft’s neck and he inhales. “You are here.” He whispers, feeling tears starting to leak from his ducts. “I missed you. So much. I cried all morning. You weren’t answering my texts. I thought you had an important meeting or emergency to attend to, but now I see why.” 

“I am sorry, Lock. I wanted to surprise you.”

“You did.” Sherlock sniffs loudly. “I don’t ever want to be apart from you again.”

“I don’t either.” Mycroft whispers. “I couldn’t sleep either. My arms – they need to hold –”

“Me.” Sherlock smiles against his brother’s neck, as the aforementioned arms envelop him, bringing him close. “Missed my big spoon.”

“I stupidly did the laundry the day after. And then I understood why you took my shirt.” 

“Is it as bad for Alphas to be separated from their mate, as Omegas?” Sherlock asks.

“Terrible. I almost cried when I finished the last slice of your most excellent pumpkin pie, dear.” Mycroft slides his hand into Sherlock’s toque covered curls, and he guides him for a much-needed kiss.

Sherlock melts into the kiss – using it as the medium to communicate just how much he missed his Alpha. It starts sweet, but quickly grows heated and desperate. His tears are getting smeared between both their cheeks. His brother’s hand cups his jaw when they break apart, panting, and gently wipes the teardrops away with his gloved fingers. 

“Shh… Lock. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” 

“I know. I am just… so stupidly happy.” 

They nuzzle each other little more, before Sherlock finds himself being pulled along the ice by his brother. 

*

“You are here to take my roommate away.” Anwen states to Mycroft as he removes his skates from his feet. There is a dash of amusement in her fierce brown eyes – which belie part East Asian ancestry. 

“Yes.” Mycroft quirks an amused eyebrow. His brother had smelled a bit like her. Perhaps enjoying some Omega touch-therapy to cope with being apart from him. The image of little brother indulging in such activities is rather heartwarming. Maybe they even gossiped about their Alphas. He still remembers that fateful day in that squalid little flat. Sherlock despising the nature of his secondary gender. So much so that he had considered killing himself. Time has changed that.  _ I am just so stupidly happy. _ His brother had said earlier. The way Sherlock’s eyes had lit up when he had first laid eyes on him. It made coming here on such a whim worth it. “Thank you for looking after him. Now it’s time for his big bad Alpha to take him away.”

She laughs. “I can tell you are a big old softie, Mike. Probably going to take him to the Bow Bridge before sunset and then wine and dine him afterwards.” She then waggles her eyebrows suggestively and Mycroft can feel his cheeks pinken. 

“Stop teasing my Alpha, Anwen.” Sherlock walks over with a grin, having changed out of his rental skates. He hasn’t stopped smiling yet. Mycroft’s arm immediately encircles his waist in a possessive manner. “I will come back and get my things later in the evening, I guess.” 

“Yeah. Okay. I will see you then. Enjoy yourselves!” Anwen nods.

***

“Mm… are we just going to snog here?” Sherlock smirks at Mycroft in amusement.

“That’s why I requested a private tent when I made the reservation.” Mycroft reaches over to caress Sherlock’s face, his fingers feeling the coolness of his Omega’s cheeks from having spent the afternoon walking the grounds of Central Park. He had foreseen even before having stepped foot on his flight that they were going to get tactile. “You missed me, dearest one?”

“Gods… yes.” Sherlock scoots left a bit on the plush seat. A kiss. “Missed you so much.” He wraps his arms around Mycroft’s torso. He lets his cheek slide against his brother’s stubbly one, before ducking down to scent his neck. “I am afraid I am quite useless without you, My.”

Mycroft kisses his brother’s forehead, letting his own hands caress skin through the expensive cotton of Sherlock’s maroon shirt. God. He can’t get enough of this. The Alpha in him is demanding that he covers his Omega in his scent. Compelling him to touch and kiss his Lock – everywhere. To claim him in every way that matters. 

Is it always going to be like this? This constant aching need for each other? It probably is. Mycroft thinks grimly – nothing will ever get done again. And what is even more damning is that he doesn’t give a fuck. He had never thought that he would have been remotely interested in public displays of affection, but clearly that has been proven wrong since Sherlock and he had reunited on that ice rink hours before. Where he had literally made a fool out of himself and fallen in front of his brother. 

They will have to live with it. 

“Stop thinking, Mycroft – it’s not wanted right now.” Sherlock presses little kisses on his scent gland, before moving upwards to tease the curve of his ear – sending frissons of pleasure up his spine and down below. “Wonder if we could fuck here.”

“Probably not.” Mycroft slides his hand beneath Lock’s shirt, feeling the contours of Sherlock’s lovely abdominal muscles. “Might get kicked out for public indecency.” 

The gauzy white veil that separates their Arabian style tent from the rest of the dining room parts, and a waiter enters, bearing a tray. Not even batting an eye, he efficiently sets out the hummus, pita stuffed with falafel, sweetmeat stuffed crabcakes, grilled octopus and stuffed spiced peppers on the table, and places two glasses of expensive white wine in front of them before departing, as if he hadn’t walked into the middle of a snogging session. 

“Maybe.” Sherlock decides to move himself onto Mycroft’s lap as his brother’s nose nuzzles at his scent gland. 

They eat, drink and kiss – tasting both themselves and the decadent offerings on the table. The waiter pops in now and then to fill their water glasses and to bring their succulent lamb chops and their dessert – heavenly baklava and kunefa. It isn’t long before most of the food is gone, and Sherlock is grinding his pelvis against his brother’s abdomen – moaning wantonly as he does so. 

“I want your cock.” Sherlock whispers playfully in Mycroft’s ear. “And I want it – now.”

“God. How could you say such things – here?!” 

“It’s all your fault, brother.” Slipping elegantly down from Mycroft’s lap, Sherlock goes under the table, letting his face nuzzle his brother’s groin. 

“Fuck.” Mycroft curses, feeling his cock fill immediately from the direct contact. He warns rather uselessly. “Lock…”

“Yes, fuck.” Sherlock rubs his cheekbone against the genitalia. Cheekily he adds. “You are the one who insisted I learn how to take an Alpha’s knot regularly. And now you have the gall to complain once said Omega has become thoroughly addicted to your cock?!”

Mycroft’s snort at his brother’s nonsense turns into a desperate moan when his Omega starts mouthing at his trousers, applying teasing amounts of pressure to both his cock and balls. If he remembers correctly, it is Sherlock who propositioned him – but that doesn’t matter now, as he hears Sherlock unfasten his belt and unzip his fly. Mycroft’s prick strains against his pants, which with Sherlock’s assistance, becomes free – jutting up – reddened and leaking. His Omega’s eyes dilate – looking at the organ as if it is the solution to all of life’s problems – and a gasp escapes him when a pink tongue licks teasingly at the base of his cock – right over his knot. 

“I hope you have slick, Alpha. I want to ride you.” Sherlock wraps his hand around the base of Mycroft’s formidable cock, stroking it steadily. Instead of fellating it directly, he rubs the glans against his face, getting precum all over his cheeks and lips and chin. 

“Here, brother!” Mycroft groans, reaching in his trouser pocket for a packet of slick. He’s finding it excruciatingly difficult to deny his Omega anything as Sherlock masturbates his cock with his face and hand.

“Yes, here. Somehow, I don’t think it would be frowned upon.” Sherlock kisses his Mycroft’s slit, letting his tongue swirl around it, cleaning it of its precum. “You know us Omegas – can’t walk two steps without impaling ourselves on an Alpha’s prick.” He presses light kisses along the shaft, while his other hand moves to fondle Mycroft’s big furry sac. “Need you.” 

Okay. So much for public displays of affection – it’s moved on to public displays of sex. And Mycroft stops thinking when Sherlock divests himself of his own belt, trousers and pants before dumping the slick on his fingers. He watches, mesmerized – as Sherlock works himself open with his fingers. Shit. That’s hot. His brother behaving like those Omega stereotypes that he had always used to complain so bitterly about in his adolescence. Soon, Sherlock is climbing onto Mycroft’s lap, and a lascivious sound that he had never known he was capable of making leaves his mouth when his Omega sinks down against his prick. 

“So bloody tight.” Mycroft feels like he’s going to explode, but for his Omega’s sake, he holds gamely on. His hands support his brother’s sides, as Sherlock whispers filthily in his ear. “Take me, Mycroft. Fuck me. Claim me. Put a kit in me.”

“Oh, Lock.” Mycroft’s breaths have already grown stilted, as he lets his hips rock, thrusting deeper into that wet hot cloaca. “Want to love you. You will have to wait for the kit and claiming though.”

“My…” Sherlock moans – the sound swallowed up by his Alpha’s mouth when Mycroft kisses him with both affection and need. He had almost forgotten how this feels – how deliciously (almost to the point of pain) his Alpha’s cock fills him – stretching him, rubbing at his insides in all the ways he had craved. Their snogging grows ardent and messier, as the few functional cells of Sherlock’s brain lament that perhaps it is true that the purpose of an Omega’s life is for them to be fucked by an Alpha’s prick. He just hadn’t found the right dick before. 

“Now who is thinking, hm?” Mycroft breaks their kiss to retort. 

“Shush.” Sherlock leans forward to restart their kiss, using his tongue to invade his brother’s mouth, tasting that delicious baklava that they had earlier. 

The build towards climax is slow, but heated as Mycroft rocks in and out of him. Sherlock is vaguely aware of their waiter stepping in to retrieve the rest of their dirty plates, before disappearing again – ignoring the fucking going on in front of him. 

How far had he fallen, needing his Alpha so desperately that he’s getting fucked in the corner of a fancy restaurant? He’s not even in the throes of estrus. Yet semipublic-sex between Alpha and Omega is not that uncommon – and is looked upon indulgently by Alphas and Betas alike – the common tale of a horny and needy Omega desperate for their Alpha’s cock. 

Mycroft takes in all the little cute whimpers and moans that Sherlock makes against his lips and open mouth. Such fondness swells in his chest. He loves his Omega. Loves that Sherlock seems to be more at ease with his secondary gender now. When their lips part to breathe, he gasps. “I love you, Lock. I really do. My sweet, beautiful Omega.” 

His brother comes first with a grunt, after Mycroft reaches down to give his much smaller cock a few strokes before coming himself – squirting a generous amount of ejaculate deep into his Omega’s cloaca. 

Dazed, Sherlock rests his head against his brother’s shoulder, whining when he feels his brother’s softening cock slip gradually out of his hole. His Alpha uses a thick napkin to catch the copious amount of cum that leaks out of Sherlock’s hole – and Sherlock wishes that his brother had knotted him in order to keep the hot cum in him longer. The desire – the need to be bred seems to grow stronger by the day and the feelings it leaves behind are confusing. Sherlock had always liked to be in control, but these instincts – these needs are overpowering. Sometimes he doesn’t know if his actions are based on what he actually wants versus his Omega instincts and it terrifies him beyond words.

“Lock.” His brother’s hands are tenderly stroking his hair now. He says reassuringly, having seen the momentary flicker of fear in his brother’s irises. “It’s okay. You know. To want.”

“I know.” Sherlock murmurs, still under the influence of post-coital chemicals. “I just feel so silly saying the things I used to say. Being resentful at the things people said about Omegas.”

“Like how Omegas have no shame in being taken wherever, whenever?” 

“Yeah.” Sherlock winces somewhat. “I was disgusted at the lack of self-control other Omegas had. Thought I was above it all. And now, we just fucked in a room full of people, even though our tent hides us from view. I feel like a hypocrite.” 

“Lock.” Mycroft’s eyes grow serious. “You do realize that it takes two to fuck? You didn’t see me refusing. It’s not just you who is figuring out how to live with your secondary gender – you know.”

“People would see it as you indulging an Omega, and me having no self-control.”

“Fuck what other people think.” Mycroft almost growls. “And, you are so young – Lock. It’s normal for your opinions to change over time. It’s okay to be an Omega. It’s okay to want this. It’s okay to follow your instincts, to satisfy your needs. It doesn’t change my opinion of you.”

“Yes it does.” Sherlock buries his face in Mycroft’s scent gland. 

“Fine.” Mycroft sighs and further sinks into the seat with Sherlock’s now-expert manipulations of his neck. “I admire you for trying to live with the secondary gender that you’ve always despised. You’ve come a long way, brother mine –”

“I don’t despise it.” Sherlock whispers with an urgency. He doesn’t want his Alpha to think that his Omega hates being an Omega. “If it wasn’t for it, I could never be with you like this. I love being your Omega, My. I want everything with you. It’s just that –”

“The want is frightening at times?” Mycroft finishes the thought for him, feeling incredibly touched by Sherlock’s words. “Overwhelming? I feel the same, my dear.”

“I am just amazed that any Alpha and Omega couple could keep their trousers or dresses on ninety-nine percent of the time in public.” Sherlock says after a long moment. 

“Everything is still new to us, Sherlock. And I, for one, intend to enjoy it.” Mycroft kisses Sherlock’s temple. “Keep in mind, brother – that we haven’t touched each other in a week. So I would imagine that the intensity would eventually wear off back to our usual baseline.”

“Mm…” Sherlock sighs contentedly into his brother’s shoulder. He loves that his brother understands him so well – although he knows he will continue to be bewildered by the depths of his inner Omega. He then asks – feeling an urge for more dessert. Sex makes him hungry. “Can we have some more baklava?”

Mycroft grins broadly – feeling like he’s living in an alternative universe. It’s evident from their waiter’s nonchalant carriage that sex happens frequently here behind translucent veils. “Put your pants and trousers on first, lover mine – and then I will see what I can do.”

*** 

“Our last day…” Sherlock says rather wistfully three days later as they tramp in the park where they had met – in Central Park. 

His brother’s gloved hand holds his; a constant warm and steadying presence that Sherlock doesn’t think he could do without. But he wonders – if Mycroft would hold his hand when they return back to London. It’s only now that he notices that after he had reached out to help his brother up from the ice that their hands had seldom been separated since. He turns his head slightly, seeing his Alpha bundled in his dark frock coat. There are snowflakes in Mycroft’s hair and melting against his coat, and god – he just has the urge to kiss his brother. So he does, tugging his brother’s hand – and giving him a look. A certain look that has come to mean  _ kiss me. _ And Mycroft obliges, kissing him on the spot without hesitation. Sweet. Chaste. It leaves Sherlock wanting more. Mycroft chuckles – letting his own free leather-clad hand slide against Sherlock’s jawline, before leaning over and kissing him again and again.

“What’s so funny?” Sherlock asks, feeling slightly breathless. 

Mycroft’s eyes sparkle at him – looking delighted in a way Sherlock has never seen him be. 

“You.” His Alpha says, his eyes suddenly growing intense. 

Mycroft’s eyes close as he lets his cheek brush against Sherlock’s, letting his nose descend to where Sherlock’s scent gland is, and he nuzzles at it – pressing an open-mouthed kiss against it before he leaves – letting his teeth lightly graze over the unmarked flesh, causing Sherlock to visibly shudder. A promise. “You make me happy.” He finishes, and Sherlock realizes that they are standing close to one end of the Bow Bridge. 

“You make me happy too.” Sherlock grabs onto his brother’s other hand. 

“Do I, brother mine?” Mycroft whispers gravely. “Not too long ago, I made you rather unhappy –”

“I didn’t tell you.”

“But I ought to have known.” Mycroft lets go of his Sherlock’s hands, only to bring him closer with his arms. His brother’s months of unhappiness still weigh heavily upon his soul, and he can tell Sherlock still feels undeserving of the affection Mycroft gives him at times. “Come, Lock.” He says firmly, grasping his brother’s hand once more – taking him to the apex of the bridge. 

“Mycroft…” Sherlock’s mouth goes dry. “You don’t have to. We agreed.” 

“With you, my dear – I am not skipping any steps, or cutting any corners.” Mycroft says, his voice utterly solemn. “I know we aren’t having a bonding ceremony, but I still want you to have a token of my affections. And devotion.”

“Mycroft…” Sherlock says helplessly when he watches his most favourite person in the world sink down onto one knee. But next to the image of his brother slipping on the rink, this is another that will be seared somewhere in his brain for all eternity. Mycroft looking up at him as if he is the only person that matters on this globe full of goldfish. 

“Sherlock.” Mycroft is still holding onto Sherlock’s hand. From somewhere, he procures a dark velvet ring box in the shape of a hexagon and flips it open – showing a platinum ring etched with a honeycomb pattern. He takes a breath. “You know by now how imbecilic I could be –”

Sherlock refrains from snorting, while Mycroft carries on – starting strong, but faltering every now and then. “But I hope you also know how much I love you. I want to spend the rest of my days cherishing you, making you laugh – loving you. Making you happy. Would you, my dear, do me the honour of being mine?”

They both stare at each other for a long time. Sherlock finds himself absolutely speechless. This he hadn’t been expecting. Not a public proposal like this – even though the odds of them being recognized here are slim to none. None of their relatives live in New York City. 

Sherlock loves his brother. Finds it terribly endearing how human Mycroft is around him. Stumbling over speeches, succumbing to his Alpha instincts and always – the care he has for him. The public sex had been a welcome surprise. Dinner the first night and a blowjob the next day at the Museum of Sex in a discreet corner in a room full of phalluses. Other than that, they’ve managed to contain their displays confined to their luxurious hotel suite.

“Yes… of course.” Sherlock forms the words with his lips while making a valiant effort not to cry. 

His brother takes off the glove of Sherlock’s left hand, and slides the band reverently up his ring finger. Sherlock helps his brother up, and there is joy emanating from his Alpha – so infectious that he is simultaneously grinning and tearing up. Mycroft’s arms cradle him ever so tenderly – creating their own private bubble of human happiness. 


	6. Chapter 6

“Brother, what is all this?” 

Sherlock surveys the living room dubiously when he returns home from a long day of helping Lestrade with a few cold cases. 

“Christmas decorations. A tree to be exact.” 

Mycroft turns his attention to his brother, noting the tired lines on Sherlock’s dear face. Solved a few then. At least three. His brother hadn’t gone to his lab in the last few days, waiting for his new reagents and other lab materials to arrive for a new set of experiments that Sherlock had recently devised. So, little brother had been entertaining himself at New Scotland Yard. 

Sherlock shudders, remembering the Hallmark-perfect Christmases of his childhood that had been more for appearances than fun. 

“Must we?” He sighs deeply. “We were fine with not making a deal of it last year… and every year before that.”

“Ah, but we aren’t our parents, Sherlock. I thought…” Mycroft trails off – he had thought that it might be nice to establish a little tradition of their own, especially if Sherlock wanted kits in the near future. “It might be nice to have something special… of our own.” 

“I’d be happy with baking Christmas treats.” Sherlock says in reply before dashing out of the living room, leaving Mycroft to deal with the artificial tree. 

Mycroft had thought about getting a real tree – as they had done in their childhood – but considering that candles often get lit in the living room, the proximity of the fireplace and the sometimes chaotic factor that is his brother – the potential fire risk isn’t worth it. 

It is soothing, Mycroft reflects, as he puts the tree together – spreading out its branches, fluffing out the faux-fir, and stacking the layers upwards. Soon, he has a naked tree, a few feet taller than him, occupying a strategic corner of the spacious room – next to the fireplace. 

When he is sorting out the lights, his brother slinks quietly back into the living room, and lounges on the couch – looking bored in the way he had perfected over the years. Ignoring him, Mycroft starts hanging the strands of lights (deciding on the warm white LEDs over the colourful ones), making sure to distribute them equally between the edges as well as the interior of the tree. He drapes the cream-coloured ruffled skirt for the base of the tree, before moving onto the garlands. One of realistic glistening snow and another of golden leaves. At some point – Mycroft doesn’t even realize when – Sherlock helps him with the arrangement of the garlands higher up, even fussing with the areas that he had deemed imperfect. 

Wisely he says not a word, but when Sherlock pulls one of the boxes of ornaments and starts hanging silver and gold baubles to the tree – Mycroft takes a garland (gold) and sneakily drapes it around his brother’s shoulders – and he starts wrapping it around his person. He manages to get it all the way around Sherlock twice, before his brother notices. 

“Mycroft, I am not a tree.” 

“I know that.” Mycroft grins with mischief. “But –”

“Ooh, kinky.” Sherlock smirks. “I didn’t know that you had it in you to do such a thing – brother.”

Oh. 

Mycroft keeps going with the revolutions, binding Sherlock’s arms and forearms tightly to his body. Considering that his brother didn’t even protest or struggle… is this one of Sherlock’s kinks? He ties the garland when he reaches Sherlock’s waist – ensuring that he didn’t cut off his brother’s circulation. 

“Comfortable?” 

“Yeah.” Sherlock wiggles in his bonds. “I like it. The feeling.” He admits. “It’s like I am being held and supported.” 

“Hm… I do have other strings of lights, brother... And some ribbons. Let’s go to bed, Sherlock – it will be more comfortable there.” Mycroft looks for the aforementioned items, and gathers them in his arms. 

“Brilliant! Now it’s  _ really  _ Christmas!” Sherlock is already bolting out of the living room, and Mycroft could hear him take the stairs two at a time from where he is standing. 

*

“You like this.” Sherlock accuses, when Mycroft returns with a digital camera.

Mycroft surveys the scene. He cannot say he doesn’t like this. In addition to the garland, he had taken two strings of lights (rainbow) and winded them each around one of his brother’s legs, his buttocks and waist after having taken his trousers and pants off and looped around a bedpost to make it harder for his brother to accidentally unplug them. Each string is plugged into a different socket on opposite sides of the bed. The finishing touch is a large bow of golden ribbon tied around his pelvis, covering his genitalia. 

Sherlock clarifies. “You like me being helpless like this.” 

Mycroft snorts. His escape-artist of a brother would be able to escape from this setup rather readily if he had wanted to. The only mistake, he reflects, is that he hadn’t removed Sherlock’s dark shirt beforehand – but then again, who had known that they were going to end up here? In bed? And he is too lazy to redo it. 

“I do like a captive audience, little brother. Now, smile.” Raising the camera, he takes a few shots of his masterpiece, before flicking off the lights – leaving only the muted light from one of the lamps on. 

His brother scowls unconvincingly as Mycroft takes more pictures – and he grins widely when Sherlock falls onto his back, and wantonly spreads his legs (with what little leeway he had), exposing his rosy little hole – clearly illuminated by the few colourful bulbs decorating his buttocks.

Fuck, that’s hot. Mycroft had felt his cock fill at his brother’s artless movements, and he leaps onto the bed in his own eagerness. As tempting as it would be to just focus on his brother’s rear end, he reaches over to undo the buttons of his brother’s shirt, revealing smooth, silky skin. The scowl is gone from his brother’s face, replaced by a shy smile. A surge of affection fills Mycroft with warmth. And awe, for he cannot believe that his brother trusts him enough to be like this; to explore this part of his sexuality that Mycroft knows that Sherlock struggles with. 

The loss of control. 

Leaning over, he kisses his brother – using his hands to brace himself. This won’t ever get old. Mycroft knows – the feel of his soft lips against his own (slightly chapped due to the wintry weather), and the way they kiss – it is the most honest form of communication that they have. 

“Alright?” Mycroft asks.

His brother nods, “Yeah.”

“What should I ever do to you, little brother?”

“I guess you could say that I am at your mercy, Mycroft.” 

Mycroft kisses his brother’s scent gland, letting his teeth nibble at the flesh. Sherlock’s body slackens as the hormones exert their effects. 

“Mm… your heat is coming soon, little brother.” Mycroft can smell it – a subtle more flowery note to his brother’s scent. 

Perhaps, in less than a week. 

“I know.” 

“No more on-scene investigations for you, Sherlock – I don’t want you to be in a compromised situation.”

Sherlock nods again. “Yeah. I know. Lestrade knows. Besides, our lab manager texted me today, saying that all my stuff had arrived. I will need to focus on doing experiments, brother – for the next few days.”

“Are you going to change your mind?” Mycroft asks – suddenly feeling nervous, despite the trussed-up state of his brother.

“On what?” Sherlock looks questionably at him, but he quickly realizes and replies. “On bonding? Never. Big brother – you are mine.” 

“It will be irreversible.”

“I know. I want you, Mycroft. That’s not going to change.”

“You are very young.” Mycroft places a gentle kiss on his cheek. 

“Many Omegas get bonded when they are younger than twenty, My. I am just worried that  _ you _ would change your mind.” 

“Never.” Mycroft assures him quickly.

“Then hurry up, and do something!” Sherlock demands – but with a teasing smirk. 

“Fine.” He mutters something about rude and bossy Omegas under his breath.

Sherlock simply smiles. It is almost demure. “I will show you bossy and rude and irritable in a few months.”

Good Lord... What a thought. One would think such a thought would dampen Mycroft’s arousal, but it only intensifies it. He moves back down to his brother’s spread thighs after having stuffed a plump pillow beneath his brother’s arse. Sherlock yelps when Mycroft licks across his hole. Damn, Mycroft thinks as he delicately probes at his brother’s opening with his tongue, it must be a common kink amongst Alphas – the idea of ruining their Omega: fucking them, breeding them, filling their bellies with their kits. And he wouldn’t even mind it – waiting hand and foot on a Sherlock growing big with his offspring. The taste had changed – Mycroft’s tongue can make out the distinct ambrosia of small quantities of slick being produced by Sherlock’s cloacal glands. Soon. He thinks, revising his estimate to less than a week. 

“Mycroft, please…” His brother begs – beginning to writhe in his bonds. “Want more.”

“Mm… you aren’t in a position to make demands, brother mine.” Mycroft continues to lick, while using his hands to caress his brother’s sensitive inner thighs. He deliberately avoids touching his brother’s cock – not wanting him to have this direct kind of stimulation. It makes things too easy. His brother’s hips buck, well – as much as the lights would allow him to, desperately seeking more friction. While he moves to fetch the tube of artificial slick, he lets his semi-erect prick brush lightly against his brother’s perianal skin, causing Sherlock to whine with need. 

“Omegas.” Mycroft states, surprised at how easy it is to talk dirty. “Think of nothing but of their Alphas’ cocks. If they could, they would want their needy little holes to be stretched and filled at all times, hm? Need their Alphas to giving them a good fucking – keeping them constantly full with hot cum. Isn’t that right, brother?”

“God, Mycroft –” Sherlock apparently still has the capacity for forming words. “Yes –” An obscene moan escapes him when Mycroft penetrates his cloaca with two of his fingers, and his tongue – making use of his knowledge of his brother’s anatomy to rub at the right spots. 

And when precum starts dripping from Sherlock’s slit, Mycroft simultaneously engulfs his brother’s Omega cock in his warm mouth, and uses his free hand to press lightly against his brother’s perineum – on that spot that stimulates his prostate from the outside – and Sherlock howls in response to this overstimulation and would have jumped off the bed (and likely have smacked Mycroft in the face) had he not been tied down. 

“Oh god. Mycroft. Fuck.” His brother breathes heavily – already looking absolutely wrecked after Mycroft returns to fingering, stretching the orifice with three fingers. “Pleasepleaseplease –” 

And his head falls back and his mouth opens in that perfect ‘o’ as Mycroft finally penetrates him. He fucks slowly, but thoroughly – forcing his brother to beg for more. Sherlock has virtually no leverage here, so Mycroft enjoys that he has control over the pace. But then, his clever brother – in retaliation, bears down periodically, clenching his muscles deliciously against Mycroft’s prick – bringing him closer and closer to orgasm with each mind-blowing squeeze. It does the job though – Mycroft is forced to quicken his movements – determined to make his Omega cum before he spills. 

Mycroft might be a tease, but ultimately, he would always put his brother’s pleasure first. Growling – trying to stave off his own climax, Mycroft thrusts once, twice – and then twice more in quick succession – making sure to rub at the correct angle – and Sherlock cums with a quiet cry of ‘Mycroft!’ and the uncoordinated contractions of his brother’s passage force him to give in, causing his body to shudder in waves of pleasure as he releases his hot cum into Sherlock’s bottom. 

As soon as he gets his equilibrium back, he immediately helps his brother out of his bonds – and he ensures that there hadn’t been any unintentional harm done by carefully checking Sherlock over. His brother is still dazed, but he rolls over towards Mycroft – his arms stretching out towards him – seeking him out. Mycroft immediately goes to him – wrapping his arms around him in an embrace while kissing his forehead. 

“Good?” Mycroft asks him.

“Yeah.” His brother replies quietly – but fondly. “You indulge me so.”

“Mm… I love you.” Mycroft smiles at his armful of Sherlock, who smiles back – his crinkling eyes gazing upon him as if Mycroft is the sun of his heliocentric universe. 

***

“I don’t think you should go to the lab today, Sherlock – your heat is going to come within the next few hours. I can smell it.”

“But… brother – my entire experiment is going to be wasted if I don’t go.”

“I really could do without the trip down to the lab to fetch you in the throes of estrus, my darling.” 

“And… it's early! According to my calculations – my heat shouldn’t start until two weeks from now. After New Year’s. And smell isn’t exactly the most accurate –”

“Are you doubting my nose, Sherlock?”

“Yes!” 

Mycroft sighs deeply as he takes a bite of his fried egg. “If you insist, brother – I will come down to UCL with you.”

“You are that sure?” His brother falters.

“Yes. It’s not a bluff – why would I lie to you about this? I’ve already informed Anthea that I will be away for the next two or so days.”

“Then, can I at least go salvage whatever I can of my experiment? It would only take an hour, at max.”

“I will call Charles.” 

Ah, the things he does for his love.

“Must you come with me?” It is Sherlock’s turn to sigh.

“Anything wrong about bringing your Alpha around?”

“No. It’s… just weird!” 

“Trust me, brother – it is no more weirder than having you on a counter in a storage room while a Beta fantasizes about what’s going on inside while under the benevolent guise of a guard shooing everyone else away.” 

“Fine.” Sherlock concedes, and Mycroft makes the call.

*

“Don’t say anything – please.” Sherlock whimpers in Mycroft’s lap as the Jaguar drives them back home. 

“Wasn’t going to.” Mycroft tenderly strokes his brother’s sweat-drenched curls, while Sherlock shivers and shakes – trying desperately to delay the onset of heat. 

Sherlock had barely lasted five minutes in the lab before he had begun to sweat and feel feverish. Mycroft had smelled the change, and immediately had shepherded his brother back outside to the waiting car, glaring at any Alpha that dared to walk too close to  _ his  _ (or soon to be his) Omega. 

“You were always the smart one.” Sherlock murmurs, burying his face against Mycroft’s neck, scenting his brother in an effort to calm down and relax. 

“And you, the stubborn one.” Mycroft gently pats Sherlock’s back. “It’s okay, dearest – we will be back home soon.”

Sherlock trembles in Mycroft’s lap. “Please, Mycroft.” He starts to beg – starting to rut uncontrollably against Mycroft’s torso and thigh. 

“Soon, let’s try and get into the house at least, before we fuck the heat away.” 

“My… please. It is starting to ache so bad…” His brother’s eyes implore him.

Mycroft could almost make out tears. It takes virtually all his self-control to not give his brother what he so desperately needs – to take him here and now. A lesser Alpha would have already succumbed by now, their libidos and sound minds long ensnared by his brother’s pheromones. 

“Brother…” Sherlock nuzzles against his scent gland, digging his elegant nose deep into Mycroft’s sensitive flesh. “Pleasepleaseplease… I want you. Need you. Please don’t reject me…” 

Mycroft’s arm tightens around his brother, as he wills his prick to behave. Never had he encountered such a difficult situation. “Soon, darling. Not rejecting you – five more minutes. I will give you what you need. I promise.”

“My…!” Sherlock whines. “It’s never ached so bad.” He whispers. “I just feel…  _ empty  _ inside.”

“I know. I know.” The soothing tone does nothing to relieve Sherlock’s desperation. “You are off your birth control, which I would imagine has something to do with it.” Mycroft resorts to rational reasoning to keep himself from letting his primitive Alpha drive take over. 

“It’s too much.” Sherlock whispers. “God, Mycroft… please.” 

“We are almost here. Get ready, little brother – we are going to make it to the door – because I refuse to fuck you on our front lawn.” 

“Bor-ing!” Mycroft has to grin at the temporary lapse of heat-induced delirium (even Sherlock’s eyes look clearer at this moment). But his brother is back to begging within a handful of seconds for Mycroft to put him out of his misery. 

It is a mercy when the Jaguar finally stops, having arrived. Without waiting for his driver, Mycroft flings the door open, and after ushering Sherlock – who is clinging onto Mycroft for dear life – out, he makes a run for it towards the front door as quick as he possibly could.

*

“Sherlock, not the rug!” Mycroft grabs Sherlock by the arms, with a little bit of dismay in his exclamation.

His brother had collapsed in the middle of the foyer onto the hand-woven round Persian rug. On his hands and knees, Sherlock had allowed his thighs to fall open – the position beyond wanton.

“My… please…” Sherlock gasps.

The scent of his brother is maddening as Mycroft’s nose descends closer and closer to Sherlock’s neck. One whiff, and the next thing Mycroft knows is that Sherlock’s trousers and pants had been pulled down – and that his tongue is now plundering the ambrosia-filled cloaca – licking and licking as if his life depended on it. The divine slick is easily one of the best things Mycroft had ever tasted, especially when combined with his brother’s needy noises. Sherlock’s back arches in pleasure, while he thrusts his arse back, craving for more stimulation. 

His Alpha cock and balls are beginning to ache as they tent through his tight trousers. Hastily, but clumsily – for his hands are both covered in Omega slick – he fumbles with his belt and fly, struggling while Sherlock whines loudly at the lack of attention. When his prick finally springs free – harder than Mycroft had ever been – he allows it to brush against his brother’s anus. Sherlock – having had noticed – instantly attempts to hump the air, desperately trying to get Mycroft’s cock into his arse. 

When his glans finally lines up with Sherlock’s hole, his brother thrusts his arse backwards – taking in the Alpha prick in one go, almost knocking them both over backwards in the attempt. Mycroft groans at the sensation of suddenly being sheathed in slick heat. He growls – grabbing Sherlock roughly by the hips, hard enough to leave bruises for days – and he fucks, at this point completely running on his primitive Alpha hindbrain, shagging his brother into the rug. The cries of pleasure wrenched from Sherlock is probably enough to be heard for miles, if it had not been for the sturdy walls. The obscene sounds of copiously lubricated flesh against flesh seem especially loud to Mycroft’s ears.

“My…” Sherlock whines.

“God, feel so good…” Mycroft grunts, feeling closer to the brink with every thrust – feeling that tension grow and grow. “Taking me so well.” He croons; his breaths growing harsher alongside his brother’s.

“Please… please… please…” Are words that Mycroft could make out from the otherwise unintelligible noises that Sherlock makes. 

“Gonna knot you. Cum in you. Breed you. Omega.” His thrusts slow, as he feels the approach of climax. “Bond you.” He pants, as his knot begins to engorge, using the rest of his strength to hold his brother’s stuttering hips up and to fuck deep and hard, driving his growing knot into his brother’s orifice with precision. 

“Please…” Sherlock begs.

Instinctively, just as his knot takes, Mycroft leans down and bites hard on Sherlock’s neck, right over the scent gland. His brother –  _ his omega _ – howls, shaking through the quakes of his orgasm and Mycroft feels himself spend, sending seemingly endless spurts of his cum – his love – into Sherlock. The weariness in their limbs causes them both to collapse onto the rug – which would no doubt need a serious professional cleaning job. A flood of euphoria so strong overtakes Mycroft’s mind, chasing what few coherent thoughts he had out of his mind. He simply lays there, dazed. The fog slowly dissipates, the ‘high’, if one could call it that, tapers down to a sense of contentment. 

The colour of red catches his attention first, the blood oozing from Sherlock’s bondbite. Apologetically, Mycroft leans over and starts licking it away – making use of his saliva’s healing properties. The licks turn into kisses as Mycroft lightly brushes his lips against the mark. A feeling of love, of possession, of claiming, fills him, as he realizes the magnitude of what he had done. 

_ His. _

He thinks, as he wraps his arms around his mate. 

_ His, forever. _

“Mpph…” Sherlock mumbles, his first sound after animalistically screaming the house down during his climax. 

Mycroft watches Sherlock’s hand slowly go to his neck. There is some sort of disbelief that he can feel radiating from his brother. Sherlock’s long fingers brush against the possessive mark, which will soon scar over and become permanent over the course of the next few days. And then, those mesmerizing digits trail downward, resting lightly against his shirt-clad abdomen. Mycroft reaches over as well, his palm feeling the curvature of his brother’s belly – feeling the slight distention from the seed that he had pumped deep into his brother’s now-fertile womb. 

His brother wants this. Mycroft could deduce, not only from the action, but from the sudden wave of longing that seems to emanate from him. Ah, the emotional link between them seems to have strengthened at least a hundred-fold. It would make some things easier, and other things harder. And they will just have to wait and learn and adapt. 

“Love you.” Mycroft manages to speak. 

“I know.” Sherlock croaks. “I felt it.” And then he smiles (or at least Mycroft could sense it). “We shagged on your favourite rug!” 

“Couldn’t hold out any longer.” Mycroft admits, still floating on the post-coital biochemistry – it makes him not care one bit at all. “I didn’t even realize until your pants were down that things had started.”

“Well… it’s now my favourite rug.” Sherlock sighs, rubbing his face into the wool. “Mm… it’s soft.” And then he adds. “I am glad we didn’t bond at UCL.”

“I would have waited till we got home anyways, had that happened.”

“Thank you, My.” Sherlock says – surprisingly minutes later. 

Mycroft tightens his hold on his brother. “Anytime. Anything.”

*

“This is how we always end.” Sherlock grins from above, before he sinks down onto Mycroft’s prick, causing them both to sigh in tandem. “Me riding you.”

“I am exhausted, little brother.” Mycroft feels himself sink deeper into the bed as Sherlock takes more of his girth into him. “Getting old.”

His brother snorts. “You are twenty-eight for crying out loud. Hardly ancient. No. I am starting to think you are lazy.”

“You’ve caught me.” Mycroft decides that it is easier to go with the flow. 

He’s too exhausted to have such a debate, and even his inner Alpha pride had slunk off somewhere and collapsed from fatigue. For some reason, this heat (whether if it is because it is the bonding heat, or that Sherlock had been off his birth control) had been far more intense and exhausting than his previous heats – even when compared to the one where they had experimented with more acrobatic sex positions. His body aches everywhere, and he would be happy to have a sex-free vacation afterwards. Not to mention his neck – which Sherlock had decided to gently bite at to make his own temporary and non-functional bite mark – hurts too. 

“I am disappointed.” Sherlock states.

“No, you are not.” Mycroft refutes, sensing that he is being teased.

“No, I am not.” His Omega readily agrees as he speeds up his movements. “I love you, Mycroft.” He adds – his sentiment shining from his bright eyes. “I never thought things could be like this. That you could be my Alpha.”

“I never thought things could be like this either, Sherlock. You seemed so unhappy when I found you in that dingy flat almost a year and a half ago.”  _ And so sad barely half a year ago. _ Mycroft still thinks guiltily of those months. Had he really been that blind to his brother’s feelings and needs? It had been all so unnecessary. 

“Don’t feel guilty. I never expected you to read my mind.” Sherlock smirks then. “Even the smart ones can be dumb sometimes.”

“Let’s take the day off tomorrow.” Mycroft suggests. “Let me take you out.”

“If I don’t feel like I’ve been run over by a truck.” Sherlock sighs, suddenly looking tired. “Two days of sex is exhausting.”

“Tell me about it. Let’s order takeout after a nap.” 

“I am almost there, brother.” And Sherlock grunts as he cums, spilling a minute amount of fluid onto Mycroft’s abdomen – having exhausted his own limited seminal supply. 

Mycroft thrusts a few times, and spends what is left of his cum after his knot locks them both together. Sherlock bends over to kiss him, before they both rearrange themselves onto the bed, curled comfortably around each other. 

Life is good. 


End file.
